Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/532057.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Smallville
  Relationship:
      Clark_Kent/Lex_Luthor, Whitney_Fordman/Clark_Kent, Clark_Kent/Original
      Male_Character
  Character:
      Clark_Kent, Lex_Luthor, Lucas_Dunleavy, Jonathan_Kent, Martha_Kent, Pete
      Ross, Whitney_Fordman, Original_Characters
  Additional Tags:
      Implied_Child_Abuse, Half-Sibling_Incest, Torture, Drug_Use
  Series:
      Part 1 of mariposa
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-10-08 Completed: 2012-11-22 Chapters: 21/21 Words: 152292
****** mariposa ******
by roxymissrose
Summary
     We delight in the beauty of the butterfly, but rarely admit the
     changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty. ~Maya Angelou
     original posting 10-25-2006
***** Chapter 1 *****
[img-thing]We delight in the beauty of the butterfly, but rarely admit the
changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty. ~Maya Angelou
 
“Like I said, I was sitting in the station, yeah, Granville Central train
station and boy, they give themselves some airs callin’ themselves
Granville…anyway, I’m doing the usual, burying my face in a book so I don’t
have to deal with the stares…oh please. Look at me. I’m a large woman of color,
out here in the ass ba—in the country. Swear to God, you’d think these people
didn’t have TV or something. Half of them look like they’re waiting for me to
pull out the eagle and half of them look like they want to hire me to watch
their kids…see—you laughin’. You get it.”
I shifted my big ass in their little ass chair and checked out the baby cop in
front of me. White, and blonde, but cute as hell with big steel blue eyes… he
nods and waits for me to go on, so I do.
“So, I’m feeling eyes on me—normal in this part of the country—and I look up
with the Death Look, and here’s this little boy, and he just…damn, there’s this
look on his face, lost and scared and—everything in his eyes, right? You can
read his damn face like a book and I was getting a bad feeling. I’m trying to
play him off anyway ‘cause sometime all they want is a pop, no matter how
fu—‘xcuse me—darn upset they look, y’know?”
I take a sip of the fucking awful coffee they give me and I can’t help making a
face, BabyCop makes a face with me, he knows the coffee’s shit. I take a
breath, and tell him the bad part.
“So, kid is looking over to the pay phones all nervous like, and lookin’ at me,
and some guy comes out, some ugly pasty guy. He looks like a plucked worm,
y’know?”
Looked like a fucking pervert kid fucker, s’what he looked like, but I keep
that to myself. “Any way, he come over and I’m thinking it’s the kid’s pop, he
grabs the boy’s arm and tells him to be still and not talk. He touches the kid,
and the boy, he flinches. I don’t mean like, ‘Damn, he’s gonna pop me one’, I
mean flinch like he’s afraid the guy is gonna beat him ‘til he bleeds, like
he’s afraid to death.”
Fuck. I have to stop and breathe a little, shit, that shit upset me. “So,
fucker goes back to the phone… oh, thanks, honey, I didn’t think you could
smoke anywhere anymore.” I take the cigarette the dude offers with a real sense
of gratitude. Thank God, the kid is beautiful and generous too. Cute smile,
Lord, forgive me, and I gotta say, nice package on him too. I notice stuff like
that.
“I gotta say, ‘s cigarette’s right on time, damn.” Man, he got some beautiful
eyes and let me control my self. “Okay, the fucker goes back to the phones and
the boy looks at me like—shit, he’s terrified, and I thought he was even too
scared to cry. You seen kids too scared to cry, to make a sound? Right, those
are the kids that get the shit kicked out of them on the daily, but this kid,
when I sat next to him—yeah, yeah, I’m stupid, I got up and sat next to the
boy. And he didn’t freeze me out, you see what I’m sayin’? Right. Abused kids
don’t ask for help. Not that age. They hide it. And he asked me, he whispered,
‘help me’.”
Fuck, I had to shiver again. That kid had sounded so hopeless, so sure nothing
was going to change…
“Fucker came back and tried to yell at me, cursin’ and shit, but the ticket guy
came running over, and man, that mother fucker took off--ran! Excuse my
language but he was lucky as hell, ‘cause I ‘bout ready to kick his narrow
whi—his ass. ‘Your pop?’ I asked the kid, and he said no and burst into tears.
Fuck.”
Man, I got pissed off all over again, remembering how the little kid had cried,
and BabyCop patted my shoulder. Yeah, buddy, sometimes it was good to be old
an’ gray. Even if he was just trying to make an old broad feel better than
trying to imagine me twenty again. “So that’s it. That’s how we come to call
the cops, and that’s how we found that little lost baby.”
BabyCop was thanking me, and taking my number and telling me that they’d
probably get in touch and was I going far, and I said, not far enough. Fuck Now
I was involved I guess, but…shit. The worst part—I know that mother fucker hurt
that kid. He hurt that kid in the worst fucking way, I was sure off it. Life’s
a mother fucking bitch and she don’t play. And my ass was cold, ‘cause I gave
the kid my jacket…oh well. Shit. He needed it more that me, I guess….
                                  [img-thing]
The boy was wrapped up in a red cotton windbreaker, sitting on the exam table
when his mother and father were led into the room, and he cried a long time,
sitting on his mother's lap, with his dad’s arms around him. His mother cried
too, and cried harder when her fingers glanced over the Power Ranger band-aid
still on his knee, brown with dirt and old blood. His father’s sobs were the
most painful to hear for the boy. In all his life, he could never remember the
sound of his father crying. It frightened him almost as much as pain and
darkness had.
After several long minutes, the doctor came into the room and led the adults
out, to stand in the hall. The boy sat still on the table where he’d been left,
trying not to squirm. There was still a little pain. Through an unshuttered
window in the wall, he could look out to the hall, and he watched his parents
talking to the nice doctor, watched his mother fold up and start to fall, like
a broken bird, and his father’s face go pale and white. The boy thought his
face was as white as the sheet he was sitting on. He pushed his arms in to the
long, long sleeves of the jacket and tried to wrap it around himself, and
watched his parents through the glass.
One week earlier:
Martha swept pieces of the broken plate into the dustpan and shook it into the
garbage. She wiped the countertop down and stepped back to check that it was
spotless. She adjusted the curtains to let in the early morning sunlight and
glanced up to see the bus already down the road.
She glanced at the table, cup of coffee from the morning still there and a
ripped open band-aid package by the cup. Power Rangers. She smiled and picked
up the scraps. Her smile faded as she considered the wrapper. Clark was getting
hurt less and less. This had been almost an odd occurrence—him falling and
cutting his knee. He’d looked positively shocked at the blood. “Poor little
thing.” But typically of Clark, he’d immediately seen the silver lining--He’d
been so proud about the Power Ranger strip, she’d had to convince him that one
was sufficient.
The sound of the tractor in the distance reminded her that she wanted to talk
to Jonathan, soon. Very soon. 'We’re going to have to tell him soon,' she
thought. 'Tell him something. I don’t want him not to know. Jonathan’s wrong
hiding it, wanting to hide it.'
She tossed the paper away. The ship in the cellar was there for a reason, not
just to hide it. ‘If I had my way, he’d know now. Clark’s brave, and strong. He
can take it'—he’d adjust pretty quick, she felt. 'He can take a lot more than
most people could,' she thought firmly.
Her chores occupied her until lunchtime--she checked the clock. She quickly
made a cheese sandwich, dropped a few chips on the side and covered it with
plastic wrap. Clark would be home soon, and she liked making his lunch ahead of
time, so all she had to do was get his recap of the day with no interruption.
There was just something about watching his face, eyes glowing with excitement,
and the way he had of tilting his head and drawing with his hands in the air—he
was just so excited about everything.
She laughed to herself. Clark was a wellspring of enthusiasm.
She walked out to the mudroom, put on a pair of ducks and grabbed her sweater
from the hook at the door.
The air was a little chillier, that perfect on the cusp of Fall kind of air.
The trees were still green, but the kind of green that signaled the end of
summer. She inhaled the comfortable and familiar smell of cut grass and soil.
She waited at the stop, watching birds congregate in the fields, dozens and
dozens of birds, flitting back and forth, restless, wanting to head…south…away.
She found herself getting restless, uncomfortable. She looked at her watch and
gasped. Where was the bus? She called the school.
“But you know he came on the bus…what do you mean he didn’t show? How could you
not call?” She slammed the phone down and shook with rage, fear. She dashed out
to the shed, and jumped into the truck.
She drove out to the field Jonathan was in. Dry-eyed and calm enough, only her
fingers alternately tapping and strangling the wheel giving evidence of how
nervous she was.
Jon turned in the cab of the tractor and looked curious, when Martha parked the
truck at the fence and came towards him. Instinct made him climb down and hurry
to meet her. She came faster and faster, until she was running, and crying,
control flying, desperate for reassurance....
They called the sheriff. Clark was missing. Lost.
Five hours earlier:
Clark watched his mother walk back to the house. He felt exceptionally brave,
standing by the bus stop completely alone.
He would have been watched carefully from the kitchen window if a dish hadn’t
slipped out of his mother’s soapy hands. He would have been safely on the bus,
if a frog hadn’t distracted him, sent him plunging head long into the ditch at
the side of the road. Nothing would have happened if a careless bus driver
hadn’t rolled past the empty spot where Clark should have been. Clark would
have been very okay if he hadn’t decided that he was old enough to walk to
school and brave enough to walk alone. He started off with a feeling of great
adventure. He felt very brave when he no longer had the farm in sight. He felt
the adventure of it all right up to the moment the car passed him, screeched to
a stop and the door opened.
“Can you help me? I lost my puppy.”
Clark felt a little thrill—a puppy! He wasn’t allowed to have a dog, not yet.
He would soon, though. He just knew it had to be soon—he’d been practicing how
not to…to…to be careful. “Puppy?” he might be able to touch a real puppy if he
helped find it….
“That’s right—he jumped out of the car somewhere along this road. Do you know
this road?” The man looked soft, little. He had a nice smile.
Clark nodded and turned to point a distance down the road. “I live down there.”
Missed the man leaning down and grabbing a chunk of rock from the rubble at the
side of the cinder road.
“I can show you a picture of my puppy,” the light, sweet voice said, and Clark
stepped a little closer. “He’s really cute.”
Clark moved closer to the car. The man grabbed his arm and Clark panicked. He
could break free easily—but Mom and Dad said not to hurt anyone, not to use his
strength unless they were with him…but no one was supposed to touch him like
this. He pulled, and the man looked shocked and Clark knew he’d pulled too
hard. Didn’t matter, this man was trying to hurt him. The pale face above him
jerked in and out of his view, turning bright red as he began to jerk away.
There was a shadow over him, and then a sharp stab of awful pain. Against the
glare of the sun, Clark saw a greasy looking, green and black rock in the man’s
fist—the hand dropped and he exploded—his head, his body exploded and then, it
was dark.
                                  [img-thing]
There came days and days of crying, hungry and hurting. His head hurt and hurt,
and there was a lot of blood, but he didn’t try to think about the blood.
There was the train station, cold, and so big and…big, giant windows and
benches. His ears hurt from the noise, and his eyes hurt from all the people
and the colors.
There was a nice lady there. She was big and brown and really warm and she gave
him her coat, and nice police men. They stopped the bad, bad man. There was a
police man with nice eyes and hair like Dad’s and smiles like Mom’s. It didn’t
hurt when the police man hugged him.
Mostly though, he hurt, all over, and he was sick, really sick. At the
hospital, Mom and Dad came. There was so much crying, and hugging but something
was wrong and he couldn’t tell them what was wrong. He just was really sick and
he hurt all over. Mom hugged him and it hurt his skin, and when he wanted to
talk, his chest hurt.
Finally, the doctor said he could go home, and also told Mom and Dad he needed
more help, but they just looked like they wanted to cry. Dad carried him to the
car. That was nice. He slept all the way home.
 
Two years later:
“Martha, the boy needs to go back to school. It’ll be better for him. He needs
to be around other people, too.”
“I know—I know…”
“You can drive him to school, and I’ll pick him up. Everyone knows…he’ll be
looked after.”
“That’s just it, Jonathan. Everyone knows. I don’t want him treated like…like
he’s different.”
“Sweetheart—he’ll get over it. Everyone will get over it.”
Clark heard the kitchen door slam, and heard his dad sigh. He scratched Buddy’s
head and flopped his ears around. He wasn’t sure what was going on, but it
sounded like he might be going back to school. That would be nice, he supposed.
The thought of all those kids though…what if they were mean to him? It was nice
and safe at home, and he liked doing his lessons with Mom, but…he missed
playing with other kids. He did miss seeing people. And sometimes, he missed
just being on his own. Besides, Buddy liked people; it wasn’t fair to him to be
cooped up all the time, right? He rubbed Buddy’s head one more time, before
scrambling down the stairs to the kitchen, and Buddy ran after, his short legs
thumping down the stairs as he tried to keep up with Clark.
His dad turned to him with a frown. “Hey, what did I say about running in the
house? You might fall and hurt yourself.”
Clark nodded. “Sorry, but Buddy made me run. He did!” he insisted at his dad’s
incredulous look, and struggled not to giggle. He laughed behind his hand when
his dad scolded Buddy for disobeying the rules. Buddy grinned too and wagged
his tail hard.
 
Clark climbed up on the stool next to the counter and asked, “Is it true, am I
going to school?”
His dad put the glass of juice he poured for him on the counter, and frowned.
“Were you listening in?”
“Um…a little? Is Mom mad at us?” He drank a bit of juice and watched his dad
think about the answer.
“No,” he finally said. “Not mad. Worried. Scared for you.” He shrugged. “She’s
a mom. That’s her job.”
Clark nodded and snagged a cookie from the jar at the end of the counter. “I’ll
be fine. I’m not a little kid anymore.” He dropped a bit of cookie to the floor
for Buddy, and looked up at his dad. “Right?”
“Right. You’re a brave kid—you’ll do well in school. I know you will.”
Clark smiled, and then…he felt it, the tiny creeping crawling sensation at the
back of his, oh, his head, his brain, somewhere back there. His eyes began to
go blurry, just a little, at the corners, and Buddy jumped up and leaned on his
leg, whining. “Oh boy…” Clark gasped.
His dad looked—sad, and sorry. “Getting hit, kiddo?”
Clark nodded, tears already gathering in the corners of his eyes. His head was
starting to pound, but he tried to act like it wasn’t that bad. He hated seeing
his mom and dad go all pinched up with worry. It just made him feel worse, like
it was his fault somehow. “Unh-hunh. I’m…gonna lay down.”
“Here.” His dad gave him a couple of pills out of a bottle they kept on a high
shelf and he swallowed them with the rest of the juice.
“I’ll get your mom,” Dad said as he headed towards the back door. Clark was
already moving to the couch, nodding as he went. If he could fall asleep, it
might not be too bad….
The headaches that laid him flat had been a part of his life for so long, he
didn’t really remember not having them. He didn’t really remember not being
sick, or being really strong, stronger than Dad—that’s what they used to tell
him, before they stopped talking about stuff like that. Only in his dreams did
he run really fast, faster than the horses, or jump so high he could jump right
on top of the tractor shed. Only in his dreams…in real life, running made him
breathe very, very hard, and there were too many times he spent aching all
over, his stomach crushing and his head pounding.
He lay on the couch, wrapped in the wonderful blue and red quilt Mom made
herself, his red jacket a pillow under his head, and Buddy shoved between him
and the couch. Every time a whimper broke through his control, he got an ear or
an eye full of cold wet nose. Buddy was the best, the best friend a kid could
have. He might look like a cross between a brush and a hotdog, but he was the
best dog in the whole world.
The first day of school was exciting—terrifying. Mom was squeezing his hand so
hard it almost hurt. He had to pull a little before she let go. He was in third
grade, no one in third grade held their mom’s hand. At least not out where
everyone could see. All the kids were running to the big double doors at the
top of short flight of stairs. The kids pushed and shoved on their way into the
doors and he was getting shoved a little, and finally, he moved towards the
doors, too. He hoped no one could tell he was scared. He looked at the huge
gray doors looming toward him and caught sight of something wonderfully
familiar—a square brown face, a broad smile stretching the face into a look of
care-free joy, and big dark eyes dancing with laughter. Clark felt his spirit
soar. He turned back and waved at his mother, his own face wreathed in a warm
smile he had no idea was irresistible.
 
When Jonathan came to pick him up that afternoon, Clark was bursting with
things to tell them.
He sat at the kitchen counter and watched his mom make dinner, and told her
about show and tell, and snack time. He showed her his work sheet, and Martha
ooh-ed and aah-ed, just Jonathan had, of course.
“I finished before anyone else, and look—I got a sticker! Scratch it Mom, it
smells like strawberries!” Clark told her also how nice his teacher was. “And
she smelled pretty, too, Mom. She is really pretty. She has a dog just like us,
and she lives in the middle of town. The kids who do the best in school get to
go to her house for Tea. Isn’t that cool?” Clark swung his legs back and forth
and snuck a slice of sugar and cinnamon dusted apple from the bowl dangerously
close to him.
“How can I make pie if you eat all the apples?” Martha teased.
“Just one slice. Promise!”
 
He smiled back, and Martha felt warmed inside. A year ago, she wouldn’t have
been able to tease him at all. He wouldn’t have been able to handle it—he would
have burst into tears. Everything and anything that went wrong was his fault
then, he barely spoke above a whisper. He tried to hide in plain sight all the
time. He wore the red cotton jacket he’d gotten from his rescuer all the time,
it went almost to his ankles and you could wrap the arms around him two times.
Now he was smiling, and teasing back, almost as enthusiastic as he’d been when
he was a baby.
Wheezing at the kitchen door announced the arrival of Buddy, all spiky hair and
dripping nose. There was another reason Clark was less withdrawn. When they’d
realized that Clark was no longer a…a danger…they’d gotten him this ball of
fluff from the shelter. Clark had been the one to name him Buddy. Now he was
more a ball of scruff, but he was sweet and affectionate and so tuned into
Clark’s moods he was almost a barometer for them.
“Buddy, guess what? Pete Ross is in my class too. Remember Pete Ross?” Buddy
looked for a second, huffed and wandered off. “Anyway, you remember him, Mom?
From the playground? Yeah. He’s in my class.”
Martha nodded. Clark had been highly impressed by Pete. Pete’s family was that
rarity in Smallville, fairly well off—and African American. Pete was a good
kid, thank goodness, because Clark thought all people of color were angels in
disguise. She smiled to herself. Pete kind of was. He’d taken Clark under his
wing, and that had made a tremendous difference for him. He seemed to sense
Clark needed—support. And now, Clark was doing really well. She snuck a look at
Clark, tongue working at the corner of his mouth as he puzzled out his
homework. He was doing very well. She hoped. Her forehead wrinkled, and her
familiar feeling of guilt washed her. No, no, Clark was obviously well
adjusted, doing better than they’d ever hoped. He was strong—just like she’d
always said he was. Stronger than most.
                                  [img-thing]
Clark lay in a square of sunlight on the floor of his room. The window was wide
open, curtains drawn back and Buddy lay next to him, nose twitching as the
breeze brought him fresh scents. Clark had his crayons out, and he was having a
good time, drawing pictures of the best dog in the whole world, and the boy who
lived in his dreams and could do anything in the whole world, and Pete.
Pete Ross was great; he was Clark's very best friend in the fifth grade. He was
his best friend, period. Pete Ross had a big house, and brothers and a sister,
and there was always noise and laughing and stuff going on. He had a dad who
was a lawyer and a mom who was a judge, and he wasn’t sure what that meant but
he knew it was different than his house. Pete’s mom wore suits and gold jewelry
and a watch that Pete said had diamonds in it. They planned to sneak it out one
day when she didn’t wear it, and see if they could write their name on the
glass in the shed window. Pete said that only diamonds could scratch glass,
everyone knew that. If you saw windows with names and stuff cut in them—it was
diamonds that did it. Clark knew it was true because Pete knew a lot of stuff
about a lot of things. He was very smart.
Pete wasn’t his only friend. Clark had lots of friends at school. He really
liked school. He liked learning things, even though he got teased for being so
serious. He liked sports, even though he couldn’t play so well. That didn’t
bother Clark too much, because he got to do other things, like the bulletin
board in the office, and in the main hallway. He always helped do the stage for
plays and assemblies. Pete told him it was just fine, not everyone could do
sports and not everyone could draw like Clark, so it all worked out. Pete was
smart. Pete liked Clark's old red jacket, he liked Buddy. He liked the farm.
Pete made Clark feel like he was just like everyone else.
Like everyone else. Oh well. Clark shook his head, and Buddy cracked an eye
open and growled at him. “Sorry, sorry, let me make myself more comfortable for
you, okay? Sheesh.” He rolled to his back, and so did Buddy, groaning in doggy
ecstasy as the sun warmed his tummy and his head flopped down over Clark’s leg.
Clark let his head drop back too. Buddy had the right idea. The sun felt great
shining down on his face. He sighed, Buddy sighed. The only thing that would
make this afternoon better was Mom bringing him a coke, or Pete showing up. He
smiled at the thought. Yeah. That would be nice.
Clark scratched Buddy’s tummy and thought about how he felt about himself. He
knew realistically he was like everyone else, but…there was something in the
back of his mind, something he knew made him…different. Maybe not just that
Thing That Happened, maybe…he sighed to himself. He just had a feeling.
Pete—Pete told him he was nuts, and yeah, he probably was, but sometimes, he
had weird dreams, about a boy who looked just like him, but was better, a boy
who could do—anything. Everything. Sometimes, Clark thought that maybe the
wonderful boy in his dreams was him.
Clark laughed, and Buddy huffed loudly. “Would you still like me if I could
fly, Buddy? Would you fly with me?”
                                  [img-thing]
Fifth Grade:
Someone was coming. Some One was coming…he tried to walk faster but something
was pulling at him, wrapping around his legs. He tried to run but he was going
slower and slower. Someone was coming and he knew if they touched him he would
die, because what was coming was worse than a monster.
Someone was closer now and he tried to call out for his mom but his voice was a
whisper, no matter how hard he strained. He could feel the muscles in his neck
swell, feel that rough feeling in throat, feel blood pounding with his effort,
but his screams came out breathy and weak.
Some One grabbed his arm and yanked him around and a jolt of pain shot through
him.
“I’m going to kill you and your family for what you did to me,” a harsh whisper
stabbed into his ear, knifed right into his brain—it felt like someone shoved a
sharp stick in there and jerked it around. He was crying and begging Some One
to stop.
Something fell on him from out of the sky, and it hurt so bad. It hurt worse
and worse, and Some One said, “You deserve to die.”
He cried because maybe it was true….
Clark woke up and almost immediately wished he were still asleep. The pain was
rolling through him in great, gagging waves. He panted through a really bad
spike, closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing. What could be worse, a
nightmare about That or waking up to this? He shuddered, and tried to roll
himself off the bed. Buddy was staring up at him from the floor, whining
softly.
“I’m okay,” Clark told him and laughed. Yeah, he was breathing anyway. Buddy
wagged his tail and tilted his head, followed Clark when he staggered to the
bathroom.
Clark sipped at water, afraid to put too much in his stomach. He tried to be as
quiet as he could, but as he tossed the cup into the wastebasket, he heard the
click of the door opening behind him. He jerked around and for a moment, the
thrill of horror that raced through him paralyzed every muscle. The relief that
flooded him at seeing his dad’s face almost dropped him to the ground. The
immediate grinding spike of pain made him gasp.
His dad looked horrified, “Shit, Clark, what is it?” he grabbed him, held his
shaking arms. Clark figured his dad didn’t even know he’d cursed. Gosh. Clark
sat abruptly on the floor, too shaky to stand.
“Dad…Dad…” he felt a huge wave of embarrassment, because he knew he wasn’t
going to be able to keep from throwing up on his dad, and almost the instant he
had the thought—he did.
“Oh boy, this is a bad one, hunh, sport? Don’t worry, it’s okay. Don’t cry…”
His dad sat on the floor and held him, rocked him. “It’s okay. Dad’s here.”
“Dad, the man…the man…” He could feel his dad go rigid. “I had a dream.”
“He can’t ever hurt you again son, never again. He’s dead, okay? Some other bad
men in the prison killed him.”
His dad leaned back, looked down into Clark’s eyes, wiped damp hair from his
face. “We never wish for someone to be dead son, but it happened, and I’m not
sad. You’re safe. He can never touch you, understand?”
Clark’s head still pounded, it hurt and it felt like it was stuffed with cotton
at the same time. He heard his dad, and wished what he said made him feel
better. The man could never hurt him again. But the hurt he already had
wouldn’t go away. He sighed, and leaned into his dad. That man took something
important away. His dream friend tried to tell him sometimes. He just wished he
knew what it was.
                                  [img-thing]
Jonathan cleaned Clark and himself up, gave him a couple of pills and led him
back to bed. He tucked him in and kissed him goodnight, managed not to step on
Buddy on his way out. He went back into the bathroom, and stared at himself for
a long, long time in the mirror. He stared into his own eyes and thought, ‘I’m
glad that monster is dead. I’m glad he’s dead; I hope it hurt so fucking much.
I hope he got what he did to Clark and I hope it took him a long time to die.’
A tear splashed into the sink. He inhaled a deep long breath and let it out
slowly. Once, twice, until he felt…balanced again.
He knew damn well Martha was up, and only sheer willpower was keeping her in
bed. He smiled a little lop-sided smile. Nice of her to trust him. When Clark
was younger, she always intervened. He understood it to a certain extent—he’d
been so angry, it was hard for him to be soft with Clark. Clark needed their
love, not their anger at that bastard, or what had happened.
He shook his head, He was heartily glad that pervert was dead. He wished all
perverts like that a miserable death—hoped they rotted in hell.
                                  [img-thing]
Clark walked on the high side of the road, trying to avoid crunching through
the cinders and watched Pete walk along, kicking rocks and tossing his baseball
up and down. It was a warm day, warm enough that Pete left his jacket open and
had his gloves crammed into his pocket.
“What are you gonna do for Easter?” Pete asked him. “Are you coming to church
with us, or not?”
“Probably. I talked to my mom about it. She seemed okay with it. Are you sure
your mom doesn’t mind me coming for dinner?”
“I already told you,” Pete said impatiently. “My mom said she was fine with it.
Now, don’t forget you have to wear a tie, and not jeans.” Pete stumbled a
little and Clark caught him, set him on his feet again and neither of them
noticed how quickly Clark moved, or how easily Clark caught him. A sharp jab of
pain between Clark's eyes made him stop, and lean his hands on his knees for a
minute.
“Wow. Wow. Hold on a minute, Pete.” Clark swallowed hard a time or two, waiting
for the nausea to pass.
Pete stopped, frowning at Clark sympathetically. “Are you—you getting one of
those headaches, Cee? We can sit down, if you want.” He pointed over towards
the school ground, and Clark nodded.
They strolled over to the swings there, and sat, kicking their feet in the dirt
under the swings. Pete stared up into the overcast sky. He was thinking hard,
Clark could see that. He opened and shut his mouth a time or two, and Clark
took pity on him.
“What do you want to know, Pete?” He closed his eyes, tilted his head back and
pushed off, letting the swing carry him. He had a feeling what was on Pete’s
mind. He hadn’t asked him about anything since they were little kids. He felt
the wind ruffle his hair as he pushed off hard, heard Pete’s voice from far
away.
“What happened to you, Cee? Was it really bad? ‘Cause…sometimes…sometimes, you
cry in your sleep.”
Clark felt the question like a punch to the gut. He had no words to describe
what he felt about it, about what had happened, so he just said, “I was scared.
It was dark, and I don’t remember much but being scared. All the time.” His
words echoed oddly in his head as he spoke. He wanted to tell Pete about the
other little boy, the one in his dreams, the one that kept telling him he'd
lost something then. But he didn’t want Pete to think he was crazy, so he kept
quiet.
They swung a bit, with nothing but the sound of the breeze in the still bare
trees to cut the silence. After a bit Pete said, “I’m sorry.” Pete shivered,
and zipped his jacket shut.
Clark pulled his hands up into the sleeves of his red jacket, and wrapped his
covered hands around the chains again. He pumped his legs and flew—back and
forth, into the sky. Clark sighed--knew what Pete meant but he just said, “It’s
not your fault.”
 
They walked off the playground, and headed towards home, where Pete’s mom would
pick him up. Right before they walked up the farmhouse drive, Pete stopped
Clark, and hugged him. It was brief but hard, and then punched his arm hard
enough to make Clark grunt. He looked down at his friend and smiled. “You’re a
good guy, Pete.”
Pete shook his head. "No, Cee, you’re the good one. I wish I could be as good
as you.”
Clark laughed, short, sharp bitter. “Oh no, you don’t want to be me. You really
don’t.”
Buddy came running from the back of the house, barking like crazy and they
laughed, both of them relieved to be distracted from the moment. Clark knelt
and flopped Buddy’s ears around. “You’re a crazy dog, you know that, right?”
Pete took advantage of Clark’s distraction and took over the whole porch swing,
making him sit on the top step. “Like owner, like dog, I always say.”
“Shut up!”
“Ha! Make me!”
“Why am I your friend, again?”
“Easy, Cee. You love me!” Pete grinned from ear to ear, and Clark buried his
face in Buddy’s back, so Pete couldn’t see him blush.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Seventh grade:
“Mom, can we go to the mall? I need to go—I want to get a new shirt for the
dance this Friday. The whole seventh grade is going to be there. It’s the last
dance this year and Pete needs me to go with him…”
Martha stopped and stared at the stranger who actually wanted to go shopping.
Clothes shopping.
Wanted. To. Go. Shopping.
“Mo—om, stop it! You’re making me embarrassed. All I want is to go and get a
shirt or something. For the dance. It’s not the end of the world.”
Her baby was red-faced, and rolling his eyes, and discomfort oozed out of every
pore. Oh—well, of course. She should have seen the signs before this. She
smiled and said, “We can go tonight, after dinner, if you’d like.”
Clark nodded quickly and started to back out of the room. “Okay, thanks.
I’m—going to finish my homework now.” He tripped over the rug, and slammed his
knee into the counter stool. “Ow, da—gosh. Darn it.” Clark grit his teeth, and
squeezed his eyes tight against tears, and Martha rushed over.
“Let me see,” she said and pushed him to the stool, rolling his pants leg up.
There was a rapidly purpling bruise on his knee.
Clark looked down at the bruise, and, “Damn it,” he muttered, but Martha let it
go. Usually, when Clark bruised so easily, it meant a renewal of those horrible
headaches he’d gotten frequently as a child. Now, he got them rarely, they
usually cropped up again around a growth spurt, and he was overdue…she sighed
and lightly stroked his knee. “Maybe it’s just a bruise, honey. You did hit
that stool pretty hard.”
Clark tried to smile. “Yeah, you’re right. Clumsy, hunh?” He stood and winced a
little and she rose quickly, hand out. “No, I’m fine, it’s just my knee. I’d
probably feel better though, if I had some milk. And maybe some cookies?” He
grinned and her heart swelled.
“You really think you can play me like a fish on a line, don’t you?” She said.
“Um. No…” he grinned. “…yes? A little?” He grinned wider and she was struck by
how angelic he looked. Big green eyes, so wide, and sweet dimples punctuating
those rosy cheeks. Clark was pretty enough to be a girl, she thought. And
speaking of girls… “So, who’s the lucky one you have a crush on?”
“What?” Clark squeaked. “Crush? Who?” The cookie that had been on the way to
his mouth flipped out of his fingers and soared into the air. It hit the floor,
much to Buddy’s patient delight. In a second cookie and crumbs were whisked
away.
Martha laughed. “Who’s the lucky girl? I haven’t heard you mention a particular
name, except for…Lana?” She giggled inwardly as Clark turned bright red. “Maybe
I should ask Pete?”
Clark turned even redder. “Pete?” he gasped. “Pete—why? I mean, how—would Pete
know?”
Martha turned away to fill the kettle with water. “Well, he’s your best friend,
and he knows everything about you, so—”
Clark slid off the stool. “Well, he doesn’t know everything, and he doesn’t
know about this, and I think I’m going to go finish my homework in my room.” He
stomped off.
‘Oops,’ she thought. ‘I think I screwed that up.’ She looked after him,
considering going up to talk to him, but she remembered that age very well, how
everything was the end of the world all the time and emotions were so volatile.
She sighed. He’d get over it soon enough. This was really completely average
behavior for his age…a chill swept over her.
Average. Clark had no memory of being anything but average. Jonathan was
content to leave it that way, but she…she still disagreed. They’d argued about
it, on and off…the spaceship was still buried under a tarp in the root cellar.
Jonathan had wanted to literally bury it, far out on the property but time
after time, Martha argued against it. Someday, they’d have to explain to Clark.
He would need to see—that no matter what it seemed like, he was different. It
wasn’t something they could hide forever, or forget about like Jonathan wanted
to do. It didn’t matter that whatever had once made Clark so
obviously…alien…was gone, that to all intents and purposes, he was a normal,
earth average boy. The fact remained that he wasn’t. There still were
differences—besides the odd and rather frightening episodes he got from time to
time, he didn’t get colds, he didn’t get any of the normal childhood
diseases…Martha sighed. Clark even heal much faster than most, but only a very
observant person would see that. She doubted it had made an impression on Clark
yet.
Her baby had no idea he wasn’t like everyone else.
                                  [img-thing]
Clark sat huddled on his bed, wishing he was dead, or something. Wishing he
could be like everyone else. He shuddered. Why? Why did he have to be different
from the other kids? Why couldn’t his life just—be normal?
He shuddered, rolled over on his bed and buried his face against his quilt.
‘Okay, don’t cry, or Mom will see your eyes are all red, and want to know
why’…he half-laughed, half sobbed. Why couldn’t she be more like Dad? His arm
would have to be hanging by a string before Dad noticed anything was wrong….
Why couldn’t he be like Pete? Pete was normal, average…well, better than
average. Much better than average. Pete had it all, the looks, the body, the
popularity…he didn’t fool himself—people liked him because he was
“ClarkPete’sfriend” like it was one da—damn word! Who saw him, when he was
standing next to Pete? Pete was funny as heck, and so sexy…dark, and smooth,
like chocolate, like chocolate cake....
Clark threw himself on his stomach and groaned. Chocolate cake—God. Thoughts
like that were proof he was different. Everywhere he turned, it was there. The
locker room, the field, the pool…gosh, it was all horrible. And every time he
thought about Pete, he felt…funny. Warm. Tingly. Fizzy. Sometimes, thinking
about Pete made his eyes burn, and then his head would thump and thump and
everything hurt—the light hurt, his skin hurt and he’d feel like throwing up.
He’d have one of those two day migraine things and the back of his head would
hurt so bad, he’d swear something was trying to rip its way out from the
inside. Sometimes, he thought that would be a blessing.
He got up, went to his closet and pulled out his blanky. Jacky. Whatever. When
he got down like this, there were two things that made him feel better: Buddy,
and the red jacket he’d gotten from the stranger whose face he couldn’t recall
anymore. He pushed his arms through the sleeves and wrapped himself in it,
noted in the back of his mind that the sleeves weren’t very long at all
anymore…but it was enough.
All he remembered anymore was a general impression of softness—kindness. Of
safety wrapped up in cocoa skin. He inhaled, and whistled for Buddy.
Eighth Grade:
Clark was still a little stunned. More than a little. The new girl…wow. She
was…different. Big city different, he guessed. Maybe they were all like that in
the city. His head still whirled a bit. This—what happened wasn’t exactly what
he thought would happen.
It started in school, when he’d been called on, sort of ‘volunteered’ to show
her around and she’d been like a force of nature, not shy at all.
That girl was a little blonde tornado—all over the place, all flying hands, all
non-stop talking…Clark grinned. She’d taken that “show me around” thing
seriously too. After school she’d dragged him right downtown, and they’d
searched the News Rack for a Daily Planet. She acted like she’d been hijacked
to Mars instead of the country—poor Chloe Sullivan, cast away on an alien
planet, lost in the untamed wilds of Smallville. He snickered, thinking about
how excited she’d been when they’d actually found The Daily Planet. Her
lifeline to ‘Civilization’.
And then—holy crap, when she’d found out he lived on a farm, that was the
topper. She’d even demanded to know why he had zippers on his clothes. And,
okay, that was really strange. It took him a while to figure out what the heck
she’d been getting at…zippers. Clark leaned back on the little army cot he’d
shoved up into the loft, and laughed. Her face when she’d seen Dad on the new
tractor, and Mom using the food processor. She’d been absolutely scandalized!
He giggled even harder.
Amish! She’d thought anyone who lived and worked on a farm had to be Amish.
Gosh, where did the people in the city think their food came from? Clark’s
giggles slowly faded into an amused grin. Buddy shoved him off the cot, so
Clark ended up on the floor, thinking about the other weird thing that had
happened.
She’d kissed him. And not a peck on the cheek. A kiss kiss. A big deep kiss
that wow—he felt down to his toes, and then said, “I know you've been thinking
about that all day, so I figured we'd get it out of the way and be friends.”
And after the kiss, she just went on yakking until her dad came to pick her up.
Mr. Sullivan was nice in a trying-just-a-wee-bit too hard kind of way. Kind of
nice looking too…and his daughter just might have proved what Clark had been
thinking about himself for a while.
Clark was pretty sure what he felt about some—guys—was what he probably should
have been feeling for Chloe. He licked his lips, still tasting her strawberry
flavored lip-gloss. He could still feel it, too, kind of slick and greasy on
his lips. He walked over to the porthole shaped mirror hanging on one of the
wall studs. In fact, he could still see it. It made his lips look…shiny. Nice.
He licked at the remnants of gloss, and a slow shiver tickled low in his belly.
He thought of Pete touching the gloss, and the tickle turned into a swift jab.
He winced, but not because it hurt….
                                  [img-thing]
Every time Pete looked, he caught Clark staring at him, and it made him
uncomfortable. He was supposed to be looking at his date—a girl that Pete had
gone to a lot of trouble to set Clark up with. No one should be at the Founders
day dance without a date—this was almost like the eighth grade prom. And what
was Clark doing? Giving him the evil eye from across the dance floor. Pete had
no damn idea what was wrong with Clark, what he’s done to piss him off like
that, but it was kind of putting a crimp in his moves.
Or not—Angela kept pulling him out to the dance floor, and she was dancing
really close, and the chaperones weren’t looking. It felt good when she dragged
him, really good. He tried to put a little space between her and his boner but
she didn't seem to care at all. He thought that he was gonna to die of
embarrassment, and then he thought he was gonna die from really, really good
luck. Boy…
He was breathing harder and harder and his face felt like it was going to
explode and when she finally let him walk off the dance floor—when he had to
walk off the dance floor, he was yanking his shirt down ‘til it hit his knees.
Whoo. He was grinning, he felt like he was on top of the world; he was
definitely going to call her later. He felt the paper with her number scrawled
on it shoved deep in his pocket. He adjusted himself a little and then—Clark
was towering over him, and his lips were pushed out, and his cheeks were really
red.
“What’s up, Cee?” He looked pissed, Pete thought—maybe his date was not exactly
what he wanted it to be.
“I’m tired. I want to go home.”
Pete decided not to argue. Clark really looked stressed. Really stressed.
“Okay. Let me call my mom.”
Clark looked a little relieved at that, and they left the dance.
Outside, the cool air made Pete zip up his jacket, and Clark shivered and
buttoned his jacket, the collar pulled up around his neck. He shuffled back and
forth, he squirmed and coughed until Pete asked, “What the hell is wrong, Cee?
You’re jumping around like something crawled up your ass.”
Clark burst out in a high pitched yip of a laugh, and looked stunned at the
sound that came out of his mouth. Pete laughed harder. “You really are a mess.
What’s going on in that big empty space between your ears?”
“Ah. Pete. Pete…I have a problem.”
Pete nodded. “Okay. So—tell me.”
“I like you. A lot. A lot. A—”
“Yo, Cee…you’re stuck. And I don’t think I heard right because it seems like
you said—”
Clark quickly cut in. “Nothing, I didn’t say anything—look, it’s your mom’s
car!” He frantically waved at the minivan swerving into the parking lot. “Mrs.
Ross!” He called out, and ran towards the van. “I’ll sit in the back,” he
called out, and even in the weird blue white light of the parking lot, Pete
could see that he was redder than he’d ever been before…shit. What the hell did
Clark just tell him? His mom was smiling at him when he climbed in to sit next
to her in the van, but Clark, Clark was staring at the floor.
                                  [img-thing]
“So this thing happened tonight, Mom. This weird thing.” Mom’s looking at me
like I’m playing twenty questions and she doesn’t want to.
“Okay, so, Mom…Cee, ah…Clark said something weird tonight.” And I can see his
face again, bright red and sweat on his forehead, like he was in pain or
something. Fuck. ‘Cause I don’t want my best friend to be gay, and I don’t want
him wanting me, you know? And I feel real funny, ‘cause he’s been in my
bedroom—hell, my bed, and he’s seen me naked. And I guess he liked it. That
thought makes me shiver.
“What’d he say, Pete honey, and make it quick, will you? I have got to get
these darn shoes off.” She’s taking her earrings off while she’s talking to me
and dropping them in the little dish she keeps on her dresser for that. “I
swear, all shoes are designed by some guy with a serious hate for women.”
I swallow when she says that. “Clark. Clark, see—he said—something weird
tonight.”
She looks at me and not too patiently, she’s giving me the ‘hurry up’ stare.
“Well, son, he does do that a lot, doesn’t he?” She thinks Clark is kind of a
giant muppet or something, like he’s not too bright but kind of cute and I
don’t know why. Clark gets better grades than me. But he’s quiet and lord knows
nobody here is quiet and… “Ma, he told me that he likes me. Likes me, and I
think he meant like…that.” I’m hoping to Christ she understands, ‘cause I don’t
feel like explaining what gay means to her.
Mom stops and stares at me. “What the heck are you talking about, Pete? What do
you mean, likes you?”
“Ma,” I say, “Some guys—they like other guys, they call that—”
And Mom yells, “For God’s sake, Pete, I know what you call them. Are you sure?
You must be mistaken, Clark is a nice boy. He wouldn’t be like that…my
goodness. Has…has he ever touched you?”
“No, Ma,” I say, and I’m kind of mad. If he had, what did she think I’d do?
Just let him do it? Besides, Clark’s my friend. My best friend.
Mom looks all upset now and I should have asked somebody else about it, I
guess.
“I should call Martha. She really needs to know. Maybe if they talk to
him…Pete,” she says. “I think maybe you should cool it a little with Clark.
Maybe you shouldn’t hang out quite so much.”
God. She acts like Clark’s a stranger. “Ma, don’t call his mom—he’ll know I
told. I don’t’ think he wants that—”
She’s still talking though. “Maybe it’s because of that thing that happened to
him when he was little…”
I’m not listening to her anymore. I’m playing with that piece of paper in my
pocket. I should give Angela a call. Yeah. I think I’ll do that. And I’ll talk
to Clark tomorrow, or the next day…soon.
 
Ninth Grade:
Clark sighed. For what felt like the hundredth time, Dad and him were talking
about football. Clark wished he were deaf—blind—something. He chewed on his
cereal and wished the crunching flakes would make him go deaf…
“Clark, football can be fun. I played when I was a boy. I thought maybe…”
His dad looked hopeful, and Clark sighed inside. “Dad, I’m sorry, but…football
just isn’t something I’m interested in. Besides, you know how clumsy I am.”
His dad stared into his plate, and nodded. “Yeah,” he sighed. “Okay, Clark, I
guess…it’s just not for you.” He chewed on a piece of toast and Clark let out a
silent breath of relief. He was absolutely not interested in organized sports.
He wasn’t interested in organized anything. He had his friend, he had his
hobby. He was content. He glanced at the clock and groaned. “Dad…”
“Clark. Clark—when will you develop a sense of time? All right. Put the plates
away, and I’ll drive the truck around.”
“Thanks, Dad, thanks a million!”
Buddy came waddling out as fast as his legs would carry him. “Dad, Buddy wants
to come along—don’t you boy, don’t you? Who’s a wuzzle face, who’s a wuzzle—”
Clark grinned weakly at his dad, who was standing in the doorway, laughing at
him. “Yeah, well, Buddy likes being called a…”
“Wuzzle face?” Dad snorted, “Get in the truck, Clark.”
They drove along in silence for a while, and Clark was almost drifting into a
doze when his dad asked him, “How’s Pete? We haven’t seen him for a long while.
We miss him.”
‘Fuck’, Clark thought. “Well, Pete’s pretty busy, Dad, he has a lot to do…”
Clark threw out the first thought that crossed his mind, “He’s on the football
team,” and immediately wished he could have nailed his mouth shut. What an
idiot. His dad’s eyes lit up. “See? Pete’s on the team—you should really try
out too—”
“Dad, Pete and I just aren’t as close as we used to be, okay?” He felt his
cheeks heating up, and marveled in a horror struck way that he still wanted to
die of embarrassment when he thought back to the long ago night. He understood
that Pete didn’t want to be friends anymore. It still broke his heart, but
Clark understood.
He got out of the truck in front of the school, looked around quickly before
kissing Buddy’s nose and waving his dad away. He hoped he could get inside
before running into anyone—like Pete.
Of course his luck ran true to course. Chloe spotted him and of course she was
with Pete. They’d maintained a friendship, he and Chloe, and Pete for some
reason never told her about that night, as far as Clark could tell. Chloe knew
that they weren’t the friends they used to be—but she kept trying. That was
Chloe all over. A bulldog in heels.
“Hi Clark,” Pete said unenthusiastically when Chloe dragged him over to Clark,
and kept walking. Chloe dropped back a second to hug Clark and caught up with
Pete, so that Clark trailed the two of them to the school.
Clark trudged behind them, eyes on the ground, when a little wave of something
odd washed over him. He looked up and saw Lana Lang and her boyfriend, Whitney
Fordman. They strolled past, talking and laughing together, and Clark couldn’t
help but stare. They were The Couple, the ones everyone wished they were. Clark
was mesmerized by Lana. She was perfect. Her hair shone like onyx, her eyes
sparkled, her lips were red and perfect, absolutely perfect. Her figure was—it
curved in all the right places, just enough, small breasts but nice…he had a
brief flash of Whitney cupping perfect breasts and blushed, stumbled a bit. It
knocked him out of his weird headspace and made him pay attention to Chloe and
Pete again. He caught the tail end of Pete’s conversation with Chloe.
“…a Homecoming tradition. Every year before the big game, the football players
select a freshman, take him off to Reilly Field, strip him down to his boxers
and paint an "S" on his chest, and then they string him up like a scarecrow.”
Chloe looked at him, eyes round with astonishment. “Jeez, that sounds like
years of therapy waiting to happen. I mean, how incredibly barbaric is that?”
she shook her head, and Pete grimaced.
“Yeah, well, why do you think I’m on the team? Figure they’re not going to
string up one of their own.” He smiled ruefully, and cast eyes at Clark. “They
tend to do it to the weirdos, the geeks, y’know.”
Clark sighed inside. He got it. He heard the warning in Pete’s voice. He
figured he should at least be grateful Pete cared that much. He must care some,
after all, he’d never told a soul that Clark had tried to—to—bother him….
Oh well, Clark thought. If those jocks planned to string him up, he pretty much
didn’t have a choice. He might be big, but he wasn’t stronger than those
assholes, especially combined. All he could hope to do was keep his head down
and not draw to much attention…
Lana stepped in front of him, and suddenly, he felt the familiar, horribly
familiar, roll in his stomach, the scritch-scratch at the back of his eyes that
usually signaled an attack. He could see a shimmer around the girl; if he
squinted he could make out a barely visible halo of color. He knew what it
meant. Blasting headache time…crap. He stumbled again and his books flew as he
landed painfully on his knees.
Lana made a tiny distressed sound, and hurried to help Clark. She passed an
embarrassed Clark a book, turning it over to glance at the cover. “Nietzche,
hunh? Kind of dark for a guy like you, don’t you think?” she smiled, and her
nose wrinkled, and Clark could feel his own wanting to.
“I guess,” he gasped a little when she came closer, and the green stone in her
necklace caught the sun, seemed to amplify the halo effect. That was weird—he
usually only saw the halo thing around people, animals, moving things…not that
that it meant anything. It was just a side effect of migraines… “Everybody has
a dark side.”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose, and grabbed up the rest of his books, ended
up flipping them to the grass again. Of course. Great. His books land on the
grass but he has to fall on the sidewalk. His knees stung, his jeans felt stuck
to them. He groaned. And he was bleeding. Just. Wonderful.
"A dark side?” Lana didn’t seem to notice he was in pain, she was looking a
little past his shoulder, and she chuckled. “Yeah, I guess so. So what are you,
Clark? Man or superman?”
“I haven't figured it out yet.” Clark watched her eyes, watched them widen a
bit in pleasure and then, Whitney was standing next to her, a possessive hand
on her shoulder and a hard look in his eyes.
“Lana, I was waiting for you. What’s the hold up?”
“I was being a good Samaritan.” She smiled at him, and at Clark, and then
Whitney was turning her head with a gentle grip on her chin, tilting it,
kissing her, and Clark watched the pink flush rise on her cheeks. He dropped
his head, and hoped his blush wasn’t as dark as it felt. God. Between the wave
of heat and the pain in the back of his skull….he began to slowly stack his
books.
Whitney and Lana began to move past him, he heard Whitney ask Lana to look over
his homework for him, and as they passed, he cast a look at Clark. “You okay,
dude? You look like you’re about to puke…”
“I—I’m—fine. Thanks.”
“Yeah,” he said, and the look that traveled over Clark was cold, and
calculating and Clark felt a chunk of ice grow in his chest. Oh…shit. This was
going to be one long day at school, if Whitney's look was anything to judge
by…..
                                  [img-thing]
After school let out, Clark headed home on foot, taking his time and meandering
along the river bank. He stopped and stood on the bank, skipping stones across
the water, and wishing that he was about a million miles away. He didn’t really
like feeling sorry for himself but sometimes…everything got just a little
overwhelming.
It seemed so unfair sometimes—everyone at school had somebody, it seemed,
everybody but him. He was alone. More alone than anyone at that stupid school.
None of them had to suffer through what it was like to be so horribly
different. None of them had been stolen—hurt. Hurt so bad that it just kept on
hurting and you had to pretend all the time that everything was fine.
He looked up at the road, distracted from the river by a loud jangling noise. A
truck speeding away had lost part of its load—a bale of wire lay in the road.
He jogged up to the bridge and at the same moment heard the roar of an engine
coming up fast behind him—he needed to warn whoever it was there was something
on the road. He dashed out to the roadway, yelling and waving. Whoever it was
came up fast— swerved scarily at the very last minute. Clark’s heart was in his
throat, hammering with fear. The crazy driver nosedived into the ditch at the
high side of the road.
Clark dashed over to the sleek silver Porsche, and looked inside. There was an
old guy, bald and skinny, sitting inside. His head was turned away from him but
Clark could clearly hear him cursing. He sounded groggy, but okay. His seatbelt
lay open and he was scrabbling at the keys in the ignition.
He tapped hard on the glass, and the bald guy turned to look at him. Clark saw
with surprise that he wasn’t old—he was bald, but really young—and very good
looking. Clark blushed. He had really pretty blue eyes, almost the same color
as…the memory fled.
“Hey, are you okay,” Clark called through the glass. The guy winced and nodded,
made a shooing motion at him. Clark stepped back, the door opened, and the guy
slid out.
Whatever had made Clark think he was skinny, he couldn’t imagine. He was tall,
and slim, but the way he moved, Clark knew there was solid muscle on that
frame. He wore a long black coat and a dark sweater that looked so soft, Clark
had to fight the overwhelming urge to touch it.
“Fuck. Fuck me.” The guy cursed so casually, and walked around the car, hands
jammed in his pockets. It pulled his pants tight over his crotch, and Clark
kept sneaking looks as the guy stomped around the car.
He stared at the poor Porsche like it was the devil, frowning. Clark thought he
had nice lips; really nice lips….
The guy looked at him finally. “Hey, kid, I think you saved my life.” He
grinned a slightly lop-sided grin, his teeth flashing at Clark. “What do you
think—can we move this car out of the ditch together?” He was taking his coat
off and rolling up his shirt sleeves and Clark saw that he was right—the guy
was fit, he had a swimmers body and great arms….
Clark dragged his attention away from the guy’s body and back to his face, and
saw the guy was smirking. He stuck out his leather gloved hand and said, “Lex
Luthor.”
“Clark Kent,” he replied, and the minute he touched the guy’s—Lex’s—hand, he
felt a blush rising from what felt like his gut, right up to his face. Hell—the
blood was rushing right back to his cock…he’d never felt such an instant stab
of lust before, not for Pete, not for—not for—anyone. “Nice to—nice to meet
you, Lex,” he gasped. Lex’s eyes widened a bit, his hand closed down tighter on
Clark’s and he glanced down. Shit. Clark swallowed. He wasn’t hard, but he
was…interested. Fuck.
Lex gave him a slow grin and said,” Come on. Give me a hand,” and grinned even
wider. Clark could feel his face going fire engine red.
Between the two of them, they actually managed to get the car out of the ditch,
much to Lex’s relief. He stood next to the gently purring car, hands on his
hips and said, “Thanks a lot, Clark.” He smirked and moved a little closer.
Clark felt the blood beating in his throat, felt sweat break out between his
shoulder blades, and prayed that one of his attacks wasn’t coming on. He knew,
right at this moment, Clark knew if this guy asked for it, Clark would do
anything. Give him anything. He was sure it showed on his face.
Lex looked like he was going to eat him alive. He licked his lips, and Clark
saw there was a little scar on his top lip, and the movement made Clark lick
his own lip—he was hard, and a little dizzy, and Lex’s hands were moving,
pulling his shirt smooth… “Say, do you know where the shit factory is? I’ve got
an appointment there…” Lex was rolling down his sleeves and Clark felt a sharp
stab of disappointment. Lex grabbed his coat and flowed back into it—Clark
snapped his mouth shut and licked ash dry lips and wondered how long he’d been
standing open-mouthed like a dork.
Lex Luthor turned and looked at him, with the smirk that seemed a permanent
expression. “Um, shit factory? Mr. Kent?”
“Oh—oh the fertilizer plant, yeah, I know the place. Everybody does—half the
town works there.”
“Yeah? Well, God help ‘em, than. Get in.” He slid into the car and looked up.
“You comin’?”
The squeal of tires on cinders ripped through the odd little bubble Clark was
in and brought him back to Kansas. Dad’s truck was parked on the side of the
road, and Dad was running towards them, and Clark was terribly disappointed.
Relieved. Not…really sure of how he felt, damn it. “Oh—it’s my dad—”
Lex Luthor looked briefly regretful, maybe a little angry, too. Looking at his
expression, Clark would have given anything for his dad to have passed them by.
Lex licked his lip again, and Clark watched and sighed for lost opportunities.
His dad was standing next to him too soon. “Clark—what—why weren’t you waiting
for me at school? Who’s this—oh. Oh.”
Lex slid out of his car again, leaning over it, “Hi, your son just helped me
out of a tight spot. I’m Lex Luthor.” He said, and held his hand out, and Dad
ignored it, and Clark was embarrassed.
“I know who you are. Let’s go, Clark.”
“Dad!”
Lex made a sinuous shrugging motion that made Clark’s stomach burn. “Don’t
worry about it, kid—I’m used to that reaction. People don’t like my dad, so
they tend to toss it on me.” He grinned right into Clark’s eyes, heat and
something else made them blaze. “They’ll regret that one day. I’ve got a good
memory.”
His dad took a step forward, and opened his mouth and Clark got ready to
intervene but Lex laughed. “Well, I think this little encounter was a sign—Dad
can take his crap factory and shove it. I’d rather take his shit, than deal
with attitudes like that." He winked at Clark, as he jerked his head at his
dad. “See ya, Clark Kent. Too bad. It would have been—memorable. Legendary, I’m
willing to bet.” He winked again, so slow and so hot—so unmistakable about what
he meant—that Clark nearly forgot to breathe.
Lex jumped back in his Porsche, dust billowed up along the roadside and gravel
flew as he tore off again, just as fast as before.
“What the hell was he talking about, Clark?” His dad was staring down the road,
red faced and angry.
“I don’t know, Dad, I don’t know.”
Later, Clark looked up Luthor online and found out why his dad and others hated
him. Lionel Luthor was a slimy bastard, and his son seemed to be kind of a
mess…drugs, sex, scandal. Clark shivered. He almost got hit on by Lex Luthor.
Damn it. He’d almost found out what it was like to…to be wanted. He shivered.
It was a thought that attracted him, and frightened him.
                                  [img-thing]
Over the next few days, the paper first reported that the son of the owner of
the fertilizer plant was going to take over, and Gabe Sullivan said it was
going to be a good thing, and then, it was reported that the son wasn’t taking
over after all, and that Mr. Sullivan was taking over instead…Chloe was full of
the inside scoop. Said Lex Luthor had pretty much laughed in her dad’s face,
and told him no fucking way was he staying one minute more in Smallville.
“It seems a shame that Lex isn’t going to move here, don’t you think? He’s a
pretty cool guy. I met him—I saved his life.”
Chloe looked skeptical.
“Well, okay, I might be exaggerating a bit. But he was…cool.” Clark blushed a
little, and smiled.
She shook her head. “My dad says the guy is crazy. He says Luthor, the father,
is a snake in the grass. But I guess he pays well.” She glanced at Clark. “Some
weird stuff goes on out there, and I’m sure it has nothing to do with
fertilizer.”
Clark rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, Elvis Is The Father Of My Alien Baby.”
“Shut up—it’s true!”
“Wow. You mean Elvis is the father….”
“No—shut up again. Something’s weird about Smallville, I’m telling you.”
“Don’t be silly, Chloe. If there was anything weird or odd in Smallville,
they’d have chased it out of town or strung it up in a cornfield by now.”
Chloe looked at him, her eyes wide in sympathy. “Still worried about that,
hunh?”
“Not so much. I’m sure it’s going to happen. The only thing that I wonder about
is when—and how these guys could—I mean, they used to be my friends. And now…”
“Clark, they think—well, Whitney thinks you’re after his girlfriend. You are
always staring at her.”
“Um…there’s just something about her, Chloe…”
“Yeah,” she sighed. “Something I don’t have—or any other girl in school. So
tell me, Clarkster, what is it? What attracts you to her so much?”
Clark smiled and shrugged. “I like her hair? Her smile? Her shoes?” He grinned
at Chloe and slid his hands into his jeans pockets, and dipped his head. He
felt his cheeks reddening. “Anyway, Chloe…it’s not like you think. I know she’s
Whitney’s girlfriend. She’s not the one I’m looking for.”
He completely missed the effect his words had on her, the blush that flushed
her cheeks pink, and the smile that made her eyes sparkle—the mistake Chloe
made.
***** Chapter 3 *****
The sun was shining directly into his eyes when he walked out of the school
doors. Clark set his backpack on his shoulder, shifting it until it sat
comfortably. He had no idea why they had to carry so many darn books—he was
carrying the weight of a couple of cinderblocks, he was sure. He was trying to
thread his way through the crowd when a hand dropped heavily to his shoulder
and squeezed—hard. It made him jump.
“Wha—" He turned to look into the steel blue eyes of Whitney Fordman, cold and
flat as a shark’s. He was smirking—it was a really nasty expression on
Whitney’s face, Clark thought, and tried to twitch out of his grip.
“Congratulations Clark," he snarled. “You’re this year’s scarecrow."
“Stop it." Clark turned his eyes away from Whitney’s, tried to knock his hand
from his shoulder. “Leave me alone." His heart was beating crazily. He’d
expected this—known who this year’s scarecrow was going to be, but he was
frightened anyway.
“Come on, Romeo. Try and stop me." Whitney pushed Clark, back and back, towards
the drive way. No one stopped; no one looked his way as Clark stumbled across
the sidewalk. “You need to learn to keep your eyes to yourself, asshole." Whit
pushed Clark hard, and Clark tripped, fell to his back with a bone-jarring
thump. Whitney stood over him, grinning. Clark stared at his knees, waiting.
Waiting for whatever was going to happen, for it to just start already, so it
could be over. Clark let his vision blur, avoided Whitney’s eyes and tried to
find a place inside himself to hide until everything was over. Whit’s smirk
dimmed a little, a tiny flicker of guilt ran over his face, but Clark knew
better than to think it mattered—the ball was rolling and once the sequence of
events began to unfold, nothing could stop it. This was what happened to him,
to people like him….
A truck pulled up, and other guys from the team flew off the back. They grabbed
Clark and tossed him onto the grimy metal bed. They threw him so hard, air
slammed out of his lungs and his ribs creaked. He yelped, and the guys around
him laughed. Every turn and swerve of the truck made him grind his teeth into
his lip. Sharp spikes run up his legs into his gut, into his chest. It felt
like an attack coming on, and he couldn’t think of a damn thing worse than
that, on top of the nightmare that was happening now.
Before long they were in the field, laughing and jostling each other like they
were having a great time. Clark concentrated on not throwing up. His head was
ringing, grit was in his mouth. He yelled louder than he wanted to when they
tossed him into the sand.
Clark rolled to a stop, peered up at the guys circled around him, squinting
against the glare of the headlights. Pete wasn’t there, but it didn’t make
Clark feel any better—if Pete had been any kind of a friend to Clark at all, he
wouldn’t be here laying here in the dirt. Tears filled his eyes, and some of
the guys jeered, “Faggot! Crybaby!"
Clark's heart beat in his throat, his mouth was cotton-dry… “Please…please…"
Whitney bent over, and hissed in his ear. “Want to make you feel special,
shithead."
A chain with a bit of green crystal attached slipped out of Whitney's shirt,
hung above Clark’s head—and time stopped for Clark. There was a glint of green
in the blackness, and an explosion of pain—Clark shook his head, staring at the
necklace, whispered, “No, no, no…"
Whit grinned. “Don’t you like it?" He hooked the chain around Clark’s neck, and
the pain that’d been spiking him all during the ride in truck, exploded through
him. “You should enjoy it, asshole; it’s as close as you’ll ever get to her,"
Whitney snarled.
Clark had no idea what the hell Whitney was getting at, but the crystal on the
end of the chain seemed to burn wherever it touched his skin. He moved his head
as far from Whitney as he could, and gasped for air. They yanked him to his
feet, started to strip him and something in Clark—shattered.
“No! No! NO!" He fought frantically, screaming as they tore at his clothes,
fighting savagely, inflicting just enough damage on his captors to make them
angry, make them fight back, and before long, they were beating Clark, kicking
him, cursing him. Clark fought on, crying, screaming, until he was in his
boxers, pinned spread eagled on the ground as they sprayed an S on his chest.
When they finally managed to hang him from the crossbar of the post, he was
dripping sweat and covered with filth. Tear tracks wrote white lines down his
face. His boxers were wet…the fear and the pain, the beating, made him piss
himself…he was bruised and bleeding and he wanted nothing more than to be dead.
 
“Queer," one of the guys snarled, drawing the word out until it sounded like
the dirtiest thing you could say and then, spit on Clark.
Whitney wiped his mouth, wiped sweat away. He felt ill, dirty. He’d kept back
from the beating, but…this was wrong. What they were doing to Clark was
dangerous and stupid and his fault, but he felt…unable to stop. He didn’t want
the other guys to think he was a pussy, but…this was bad. It stopped being
about the scarecrow, and started being about Clark the oddball, the geek—he
winced when some other guys spit too, and was about to speak when suddenly one
of them reached out and yanked his boxers down.
“Hey faggot—if you want, we can tie you facing the other way, and let everyone
have a turn!"
Some of the guys laughed, some of them made noises of disgust, and Clark let
out a keen that wouldn’t stop, not when the boy that had pulled the boxers down
hit him, not when he was jabbed and poked, punched.
The noise the poor kid was making ripped into him, broke his paralysis. “Damn
it—that’s enough!" Whitney stepped in front of Clark, and smacked the guy’s
hand away. He replaced Clark’s boxers, startled at how hot his skin was,
despite the chill of the air. “Knock it off, you sick fuck. Let’s go."
“Listen to that freak, I’m telling you he’s queer, he’s crying like a little
girl. Pussy."
Clark's head hung to his chest, he sobbed quietly, non-stop, “… no nono no…."
“Get in the truck, damn it. Let’s get out of here." Whit pushed and shoved the
boys back towards the truck. He watched Clark in the rearview mirror as he
pulled away.
                                  [img-thing]
Clark gasped; sobs that came from the pit of his stomach shook him. He was
swallowed in the dark, drowning in it. The light of the moon turned everything
into a black and white cutout of the world, a world he knew he was going to die
in. Hurt filled every pore, leaked out of his mouth and eyes and skin….
A movement at the edge of the clearing tore a gasp of fear from him. There was
a stranger there, half in darkness, silently watching him. Clark tried to
speak, managed to croak out, “Help me. Please."
“Hurts, doesn't it? Again, and again…it never stops…." The odd figure began to
walk away, dismissing Clark and his misery.
“Wait! Help me. Get me down. Don’t leave me here…."
The young man stopped, spoke without looking back at Clark. “You're safer here.
I’ve got to go—make them stop. Make sure they’ll never do it again."
“Who—where are you going?" Clark could feel desperation flooding him—“Please!
Don’t leave!"
“The dance…they need to learn…"
"Dance? The homecoming dance…?" Clark thought sluggishly, who was he going to
punish? How…?
Dark welled up at the edges of his mind. Cold ate at his bones and clawed in
his chest. The remnants of his lunch roiled in his stomach, and he gagged it
up, splattered his knees and thighs. Clark shivered and shivered, and
prayed…prayed his parents were looking for him, prayed to fall asleep so he
couldn’t feel the slow grind of his arms twisting in the ropes, his joints
burning, burning. His lip ran blood where he bit into it. Tears blurred his
sight.
The sound of a car engine filled him with hope…the sight of a truck bumping
towards him curdled the hope, turned it into sick fear.
They were coming back.
It was Whitney’s truck that pulled into the clearing. Clark drooped in the
ropes. They were back, and this time—this time they’d hurt him worse. He knew,
he was watching his death drive towards him. He felt warm all over, and
strangely content.
Thank God, it was almost over.…
Small, warm hands were petting him, stroking him, and he felt himself being
pulled upright on his feet. He was free of the cross, he was alive—Chloe’s
voice finally broke through the fog he’d been trapped in. Chloe had saved him.
He opened his eyes and found himself staring into steel blue eyes right in
front of him, blonde hair fell in a careless wave over them, and he smiled. He
felt wonderful; he was safe, the good man found him again. He was drifting back
into the night but he was still smiling. Safe, at last….
                                  [img-thing]
Whitney dragged Clark into the truck with Chloe’s help. He was racked with
guilt, and his face still stung a little where she’d smacked him. That was
okay, he deserved it. But Clark—Whitney shuddered. He'd looked dead when they
pulled up. For one horrible second Whitney thought, “I’m going to jail for
murder—"and then Clark twitched, groaned, and they’d hurried to cut him down.
The relief had been so fucking intense, he’d almost hurled.
And then…Clark opened his eyes, looked at him…his eyes, his mouth when he
smiled…the face of an angel. Clark had looked at him like Whitney was the
angel, instead of just the bastard that had almost gotten him raped—shit,
almost killed. If he hadn’t intervened…Whitney shuddered.
He couldn’t get Clark's expression out of his mind. So much—love. That’s the
only way he could describe it. Clark had looked like he trusted him, like he
was safe in Whitney's hands…he’d been waiting for Clark to spit in his face and
he didn’t know how to handle this reaction.
Whitney strapped Clark in the seat and thought that under the bruises and
blood, Clark was kind of beautiful, almost as pretty as Lana…Chloe smacked him
in the back of the head. Really hard.
“Where are his clothes?" she snapped and was nice enough not to add ‘you
asshole.’ She stared at him with all the anger that he’d expected from Clark.
Clark. Whitney gaped at Chloe while his brain tried to work.
“I—I—shit. I don’t know…here." He pulled a blanket off the bench seat and
tossed it over Clark, hesitated a moment, and ripped the chain off Clark’s
neck. He looked at the pendant and broken chain curled in his palm and threw it
as far as he could. He didn’t know what he’d tell Lana, but he’d think of
something. It was a morbid piece of shit anyway….
Chloe frowned as Whit tucked the blanket in around Clark. “Oh well. I was
planning on sitting on that to save my ass from your seriously unpadded bench
seat—oh God! Don’t pay any attention to me, I don’t know what I’m saying." She
scrambled onto the narrow ledge of a seat, her cheeks a bright and shamed red.
“Where to?" Whitney asked.
“We’re taking him home, stupid, and you’re going to explain to his parents what
happened to their son."
“Oh God."
“Mr. Kent has a shotgun. I hope it's loaded."
Oh fuck.
                                  [img-thing]
When the truck pulled into the Kent driveway, Mr. And Mrs. Kent were on the
porch, in their coats, and Whitney was willing to bet they were about to look
for Clark. Chloe stabbed a remarkably sharp finger into the back of his already
seriously abused head. “Go on—"
“Please shut up, Chloe. I know what I’m supposed to do." Whitney swallowed
hard, and climbed out of the truck—by the time he forced himself onto the
drive, Mr. Kent was there, staring into the truck at Clark, and his expression
was…shattered, full of guilt and sadness. Whitney had the feeling his own face
had looked like that when they’d cut Clark down. Mr. Kent caught his eye, and
looked away.
Whitney swallowed, and his voice sounded weirdly hoarse when he spoke. “Mr.
Kent, do you—can you help me move him?"
Mr. Kent nodded, and Mrs. Kent stood by, tears shimmering in her eyes, glaring
at her husband, and glaring at him. She gasped aloud when they pulled Clark
from the truck, and Mr. Kent tried to speak, and she told him to just shut up,
shut up. Chloe was crying, and he felt— Whitney felt like shit. He helped pull
Clark up the porch stairs and into the house. He pulled him up the stairs to
his bedroom with Mr. Kent’s help, and they laid him on his bed. Clark’s wobbly,
old, smelly mutt tried to bite him, and once they got Clark on the bed, he
jumped up on the bed too, and growled at anyone who came near. Ancient old
fleabag. Stupid dog, with his feet all over Clark’s chest and licking his face
and growling like—
Whitney horrified himself by bursting into tears. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—I’m so
stupid, but they do it every year, everyone does it, I never thought about it.
I never saw it—" Whitney felt like an asshole, standing in front of Clark’s
parents, their son spread out on the bed, all beat up because of Whitney, and
here he was like a selfish asshole, crying and shit. Snot was running out of
his nose and he was wiping it with his shirt and he waited for Mrs. Kent to
kick him down the stairs. Fuck, hoped she would—it would make him feel better
at least.
She said without looking at him, “Whitney, go downstairs and wait with Chloe."
He almost ran.
                                  [img-thing]
“What did you tell Lana?" Chloe asked. She was at the stove, turning the burner
under the kettle on. There were already cups on the table, with tea, and
instant coffee and creamer near the sugar bowl. Whit counted three cups. He
didn’t ask why there were only three. The air smelt of cinnamon, and apples—it
was warm in the kitchen. And he felt like an interloper, a snake in their
house.
“Hunh?" Whit forced his attention back to Chloe, realized she’d asked him about
his girlfriend. “Lana—fuck. Is at home and hating me for standing her up.
Crap."
“Well, tell her what happened. She’ll forgive you."
Whit snorted, and Chloe grinned briefly before it melted away. “Hey, you
stepped up tonight. I think it was brave of you to go back, and brave to bring
him home."
Whit looked up at her and rubbed his head. “Yeah, well, I had a little help
making the right decision." He watched Chloe pour the water into the cups. She
was very comfortable in the Kent kitchen. It made him wonder just how close
Chloe and Clark were… “Chloe, what is it with Clark and Lana? Lana thinks he’s
got it bad for her, she feels sorry for him…"
Chloe rolled her eyes. “Clark thinks she’s pretty, but you don’t have to worry
that he might try and take her from you. He’s too shy to say, but Lana’s not
the girl he’s interested in, I—" She stopped, and passed the mugs around when
the Kents walked into the kitchen.
“Oh, tea—thank you Chloe, that’s so thoughtful." Mrs. Kent sat and wrapped her
hands around the mug. Mr. Kent dropped a spoonful of powdered coffee into his
cup, and stirred it while watching Whitney.
“Clark told us that you helped him," he said, and Mrs. Kent looked at him
marginally less coldly. Marginally. “He was pretty out of it when we brought
him in. But he’s awake and aware now…and he’d like you to leave."
Whitney sat on the edge of the chair, and felt stupidly hurt. Of course Clark
wanted him out of his house. Of course. He’d been out of it when they brought
him home; he'd probably been only half unconscious when he’d smiled at him.
Clark hated him and rightly so. Okay. “I’m sorry, truly sorry for what I did
tonight. Can you please tell Clark for me, just how bad I feel about it?"
They nodded, and Chloe looked sympathetic when she walked him to the door.
“You’ll be fine; Clark will be fine, some day. Go home, call Lana."
She shut the door on him, and he walked to his truck. He stopped when he saw
the blanket crumpled in the front seat, and his eyes filled again. He ground
the heel of his hand into his eyes, hard. Fine. Clark would be fine. Maybe. He
should keep his eye out on Clark. He seemed to need it, big as he was. He was
kind of innocent in a way, wasn’t he? Whit huffed, wiped his eyes on his
sleeve. He put the truck in drive and made his way down the dark driveway.
Seemed Clark had had a girlfriend all along. Well, that was good—he had someone
to talk to. No wonder Chloe thought he was such an idiot. She could have said
she was Clark’s girlfriend before all this, and spared everyone this tragic,
horrible, mess.
                                  [img-thing]
I’m floating. I’m warm, it feels good. I hurt so much before I fell asleep but
now I’m happy…I feel something damp touch me when I stretch so I open my eyes
and look. I’m in the sky! Really in the sky…the damp is clouds. I look down.
I’m super high in the sky and—and I’m naked. Crap…as soon as I notice I’m
naked, I get hard. Doesn’t matter…I’m alone and the air touching me makes it
better…I want to touch myself, I roll over and look down, suddenly I’m wearing
a striped polo and jeans. They’re not mine. They’re Pete’s. As soon as I think
of him, I’m floating over the development Pete lives in, floating over a
thousand roofs. All the same from the air, but it’s like there’s a cord pulling
me to him… I’m floating in his front yard, inches above the ground; the grass
is almost touching me. I’m floating, faster, faster, and suddenly I’m racing up
the stairs to Pete’s room, and here’s where it gets really weird.
Weirder.
I’m up the stairs, down the hall, his door opens and the room is huge. It’s all
glass and maple and steel and almost like a hospital room but for this black
bed thing sitting in the middle of the room, and there’s a white guy lying on
the bed. Not white like Caucasian, white like marble, like snow. The bed’s all
black and black sheets drip to the floor and this thin white guy is spread over
it. I’m hanging an inch over him, my chest is kind of skimming his, and when I
take a deep breath, my nipples scrape against him… his eyes fly open and
they’re the color of a winter sky, and his hand shoots around the back of my
head—he pulls me down and kisses me.
Not just a kiss…he sucks me in, he bites me, scrapes my lips over and over…I
suck his tongue, like candy, it's hot like fire, I pull his lip into my mouth
and lick, suck it…my cock is rubbing against him and he’s like glass, no hair
anywhere, no mark on his smooth, smooth skin, no end to how hot he is, how much
I want to—he shivers from head to toe, his cock trembles and suddenly he arches
and he yells, ‘Clark!’ and he’s coming on me, it’s—it makes me come too. Makes
me come so hard I wake up, and I’m sticky, my hand is in my crotch like I’m
trying to hold everything in…I wake up with this guy’s name in my mouth. And
fuck, I feel like I’m missing the most important thing in the world, like it’s
all wrong and I want him so bad, my body feels like it's on fire, and...okay…I
cry. But only for a second…
                                  [img-thing]
Chloe sat on the new addition to the loft. The cot was gone, and a real
couch—well, the old family room couch—was in its place. He had a big
overstuffed chair too. It was ugly as sin, cheap and shiny and printed all over
with eagles or something but not that uncomfortable. A couple of space heaters
were scattered here and there across the floor, and a radio played on a shelf
in the corner. Clark was sitting at an old table that now did duty as a desk.
There were some dust covered models hanging on wire over the desk, space
shuttles, ships from different science fiction movies….there were one or two in
various stages of completion sitting in front of him.
“It’s horrible Clark—it was a miracle not more people died—and the guy that
caused all that destruction was a Jeremy Creek." Chloe flapped the front page
of the paper at him. “He got the scarecrow treatment too—but twelve years ago.
They say he’s in custody, but how much do you wanna bet, we’ll never hear about
him again?"
Clark massaged his forehead, reached into a drawer in the table. “Oh,
that’s…awful. I wish you hadn’t told me…Pete’s okay, right?" He clicked open
the top of a little green bottle, popped a few aspirin in his mouth and
swallowed them dry. He looked up at her. “Is he?"
Chloe winced and frowned. “He’s fine. He left early with his date."
Clark glanced over and she sighed, “Yes, Lana’s fine, she stayed home because…"
she watched his reaction as she said, “Whitney came to help me get you home."
Clark blushed. “Well, I suppose I should be glad to hear that he helped
you….Chloe, what’s weird about the whole thing is, I kind of feel responsible
for some reason."
“Clark, it has nothing to do with you, and I’m telling you again, that’s so
typical of a kid in your, you know, situation. We talked about this
before…please, talk to your parents about talking to someone…you know, you can
talk to a counselor without their permission…"
“Chloe, I’m fine, I’m just fine. Really." He smiled with all the sincerity he
could force and Chloe came over to him. She bent and pressed a kiss to the top
of his head. “You looked like you could use that," she smiled.
Clark felt…uncomfortable, on the edge of nervous. What was wrong with Chloe?
She lingered, breathing against him, and let her hand rest on his shoulder, her
thumb stroking his neck, and he froze. Oh God…she thought…did she think that
he…that they….
“Chloe…"
“It’s okay Clark, you don’t have to say anything—I know." She lowered her head
and kissed him, her mouth was warm on his, and the smell of strawberries filled
his nose, the slick warm slide of gloss against his mouth was totally
unwelcome. She was intruding, taking—
“No—Chloe!" he gasped. He tried to push her away gently, blushed and winced
that he wasn’t completely successful.
She jerked out of his grip—her face was a blaze of red, and her hands were
knots at her side. “I—oh God!" she whirled around, tried to run for the stairs
but Clark grabbed her hand.
“Please, Chloe don’t run! I have to explain. I can explain—"
“Clark, I’m already embarrassed to death, please don’t make it worse. I was
wrong, okay, I get that. It is Lana." She stopped, her chin trembled, and she
lifted her head high. “I know I’m not a delicate princess like her. I know that
I’m not the kind of girl that guys fall for…
“Chloe, it’s not that. Listen to me." Clark pulled her, coaxing her along
slowly, until they were both perched on the edge of the couch. She looked away.
“Chloe, it’s not Lana. It’s not…any girl. It won’t ever be."
She looked at him, and her mouth fell open—realization dawned—“Oh! Oh my
God—you’re gay?Are you telling me you’re gay?" She scrambled around on the
couch until she was facing him. “Thank God!" She threw her hands over her
mouth. “Oh gosh, I didn’t mean it like that," she squeaked, muffled by her
hands. “Well, yeah, I do sort of. I’m glad that it’s not me. I’m really sorry
that you’re—omigawd, it’s Pete!"
Clark jumped up. “No, it’s not!"
“Yes, yes it is. You guys were such good friends and suddenly you weren't, and
Pete doesn’t talk to you anymore and the way he looks at you…"
Clark fell back on the couch, his heart cracking in two. “What do you mean, the
way he looks? Chloe?"
She shook her head, sat silent for a moment, and finally said, “Pete’s
confused, Clark, he doesn’t understand. Not everyone is like—well, like me. You
know how it is in this town. What about your mom and dad, where they okay with
it?"
Clark mumbled, “They don’t know. Yet. It’s…hard to tell them. I don’t want to
worry them. They might not understand." He looked at Chloe, “It’s way
complicated, and I don’t know how to explain it. There’s…the stuff…you know."
He swallowed hard, “What if they react like Pete?"
“Clark, I know you know your parents better than anyone else but, do you
really, really think they’d turn against you? Or couldn’t handle it? They’re
stronger than that—they’ve already proved that, right?"
                                  [img-thing]
After Chloe left, he’d given his dad a hand with the old tractor, the one his
dad refused to give up on, even though he had the new one. He’d managed to beg
a ride into town, and get a few bucks to spend as well. By the time he was in
town, between his dad’s soothingly boring recounting of the milk yield for that
week, and the…averageness of it all, Clark was feeling pretty good. His odd
dream made him smile from time to time—laugh at himself, really. Lex Luthor…he
wondered if the guy remembered almost getting creamed on a country road in
Smallville…or remembered him. He laughed again. Sure, sure he did….
Anyway, he had enough money to get a milkshake or something, and to buy a book
maybe. The day was clear and warm and the disaster that was Chloe’s visit was
beginning to recede, nothing could screw the rest of his day up. Except one
thing.
Pete was walking towards him, looking as happy as a guy with a gun to his head.
Shit. So much for a good day.
“Clark. I’m sorry about what happened, man. I—"
“Fuck you, Pete."
“You know, I’m trying to apologize, you—I’m really sorry that what happened
happened to you."
“They called me queer, and tried to beat the shit out of me. Why would they say
something like that, Pete? Hunh? Wonder what made them think that?"
Pete looked shocked—angry—and hurt. “Clark, I never. I never said a word to
anyone but my mom, and I kept her from telling yourmom. It’s not my fault. I
can’t believe you’d think I would tell those guys."
Clark looked at him, unwilling to budge, so angry and hurt himself that he was
willing to believe that Pete had betrayed every bit of their friendship.
“Okay, well, fuck you too, Kent." Pete backed away from Clark, “Fuck you
too—ever thought they didn’t needanyone to tell them?" He whirled around and
ran away.
Clark stood on the sidewalk and watched Pete run away from him. No. Pete was
wrong. He looked at his hands, his arms. Could people look at him and tell he
was different…was it something you could see? He always felt like he had some
sort of mark, a scar on the inside, something that set him apart. He knew it
was crazy but maybe—maybe something showed on the outside? His hand went to his
cheek, touched the area around his eye gently. It was purple, and tender and
ugly, and everyone looking at it knew what had happened…
                                  [img-thing]
The pharmacy in town was a block away from the Beanery, and Clark walked the
block with his head down, as fast as he could move without looking like he was
running. He watched his shadow in front of him, stretching out and out from
him, pointing the way. Thinking of his shadow as a separate being made him
smile a little. It reminded him of the invisible friend he had as a little
kid—the miracle kid who could do anything. He snorted. Didn’t take a
psychiatrist to figure that one out, did it?
He stepped inside the cool, wooden interior of the pharmacy, the bell over the
door jangling crazily. The wooden floors and glass cases and the damn bell
always reminded him of a Twilight Zone episode. There was retro-cool and then
there was creepy get-a remodel-for crap's sake.
The pharmacist and her assistant looked up, and quickly looked down when they
saw him. Clark felt angry, and right on the heels of anger, came shame. He
looked away himself, feeling his cheeks flush, and marched down the aisle to
the cosmetics section. He stood staring at a bewildering array of makeups. It
was…mind-boggling. Girls could navigate this—this sea of confusion? He sighed,
and turned to go, and Terry the assistant was standing behind him. She looked
at him sharply. “Can I help you?"
He nodded slowly. “There’s a makeup that they put on scars and birthmarks and…"
He trailed off and she nodded in sympathy. “Of course, I know what you’re
talking about." She led him down the aisle, and pointed out the makeup. “This
foundation is water proof and it won’t smudge all over. Looks to be about your
shade… it’ll cover…" she made a vague gesture towards her face.
He nodded. “Good. Thanks. Thank you," he said. He looked up and smiled at her,
and she just grinned back, but it was a much warmer look than she’d had before.
He wandered around, picked up a lipstick in bubblegum pink, a cheap eyeliner, a
tiny sample sized bottle of perfume, a little box of inexpensive chocolates and
a gift bag with tissue.
He laid it on the counter with a smile, waved as he left the store with his
purchase.
                                  [img-thing]
“Well," Terry said as she watched Clark leave the store. “So that was the boy
who was the scarecrow. I see it really got out of hand this year."
The pharmacist frowned. “I see that. I’ve also heard some people claim there
was a reason he got picked."
“Oh, I heard that too. My Bobby says he’s a fruit, but it looks to me like he’s
got a girlfriend. He’s real cute too; he’ll make some lucky girl happy."
The pharmacist stopped what she was doing and looked at Terry. “Hmm. Yes, some
lucky girl." She looked back down at her papers. “He seems like a good kid. I
hope he doesn’t get himself in more trouble."
                                  [img-thing]
At home again, Clark settled in at the desk, mirror propped against the
Deathstar, the small bag from the pharmacy in his hand. He opened the bag and
tossed the chocolate, the gift bag to the side. He took out the make-up, and
the lipstick.
He smeared the foundation over his skin, stroking over his nose, cheek,
carefully around his eyes and the purple bruises disappeared. He sighed. That
was better. He turned the little tube of lipstick around and around before
peeling the plastic off, rolling it out. It smelled nice. A little like a
crayon, a little like perfume. He touched it to the back of his hand…liked the
color. He moved the mirror to focus on his lips, and stroked a line across his
bottom lip. He felt…weird. Giddy. Good.
He filled in the rest of his lip. It was…it was pretty. He spent all this time
looking at Lana, watching her. He saw how it was for her. She was free, she
could say what she wanted, act how she wanted—she could be brave or angry or
she could cry and no one said anything. No one criticized her for crying, or
being scared, or feeling lonely. If he was Lana, he could have that freedom. He
didn’t have to act like nothing frightened him or bothered him or…
He breathed in a long shaky breath and opened the eyeliner.
He stroked the liner around his eyes and checked the effect, and he liked it.
He smiled a little at himself, and sighed. He reached into the table drawer,
and pulled out the moistened wipes he put there not long ago. He laughed a
little…this was definitely notthe reason he had the wipes in the loft. But they
worked just fine.
***** Chapter 4 *****
 [img-thing]
Whitney pulled in at the end of the drive and watched Clark for a bit. He was
mowing the lawn, his ever present flannel tied around his waist. He was totally
involved in the task; smiling a little… Whitney wondered what he was thinking
about…maybe Chloe?
He parked, and got out, walked the last few feet up to the head of the drive.
Clark whirled around and stared, the look on his face was definitely not
friendly. Shit. Whitney knew he'd never see that other expression again—he'd
never see a smile from Clark again because he was a jerk, and Clark knew it.
"What?" Clark snapped.
"I just came by to—to—"
"What? See if there was anything you could do to fuck my day up, make it more
miserable?"
Whitney looked past Clark to the barn, and the hoop hanging there. "Came by to
see if you wanted to play some hoops." Whitney winced—he sounded like such an
asshole.
Clark wiped his head with the back of his hand, and Whitney watched the play of
muscles as they bunched and relaxed, there were a series of tight muscles over
his ribs that flexed as he moved his arm and… "Hunh?"
"I said, why aren't you hanging out with your jock friends? Why bother me?"
"'Cause my jock friends are stupid. And you're…" Whitney trailed off, uncertain
what to say, what he even meant. "… interesting."
Clark shut off the lawn mower and put on his shirt and Whitney swore that he
couldn't possibly have felt a quick jab of disappointment.
"Interesting?" Clark laughed. "How the hell am I interesting? I go to school, I
come home and do my chores, my homework—oh, wait, that's right—I forgot—I get
hung up to die in cornfields." He turned to Whitney with a bright brittle
smile. "You're right, I am interesting."
Whitney turned and started to walk away—turned back. He walked up until he was
inches from Clark and spoke into his chin, because he was not going to lift his
head. "I'm sorry. I'm more fucking sorry for what happened than anything in my
life and if it'll make you feel better, then hit me, do what you need to but
for fucks sake, please! Can you let me apologize?"
Clark stepped back, startled by Whitney 's vehement apology. "Please Clark—this
is killing me. Help me out."
Clark opened his mouth, anger making his eyes flash, and suddenly, he slumped a
little. He dropped his head and stared at the ground. "Okay, okay Whitney.
I—thanks." He lifted his head again, and smiled a little and Whitney 's heart
skipped. "You can come on up to the house if you want. I'm going to get lunch."
"Your mom will kill me—and if she doesn't, your dog will."
Clark wiped sweat from his face and managed a smile. "Well, my mom won't, but
Buddy might. If I were you, I'd try to get on his good side." He stopped.
"Buddy will let you know if you have a good side."
Whitney just nodded.
                                  [img-thing]
The window in the school paper's office was closed, the shade down, and the
overhead lights off. The area near Chloe's desk was in shadow, and the table
she had her work spread on was in dim light. It was soothing, Clark thought—-
the dim light, the smell of paper, and the light cherry scent that was Chloe.
He leaned back in the wheeled chair that she usually sat in and sighed. As
comfortable as he usually was in the Torch office, right at the moment, he was
restless, too restless to sit and watch Chloe work. "When are you are you going
to be done?" He huffed when she didn't answer. "Chloe, when are you going to—"
"Oh my God Clark, where do you have to be? Who's waiting for you at home?"
Clark whirled the chair around and dropped his feet heavily to the ground.
"Thanks for reminding me how social a butterfly I'm not."
"Oh come on now, Clark," she muttered, distracted by her work. "You're a big
old butterfly to me, okay?"
He blew her a raspberry and looked at the wall over her desk. Pictures and
articles, from the Ledger, the Granville Post, and other local papers were
pinned to the wall, along with articles from on-line sites. Clark always felt
weird looking at it. The ones that creeped him out the most were photocopies of
articles from major publications, detailing the long ago meteor strike that
earned Smallville it's sign…Meteor Capitol Of The World.
He got up and looked over her shoulder. "So, what's the—oh. Oh, that guy…I knew
him. Pete and I knew him in grade school. He always was a little odd."
"Yeah, well, reading between the lines, he gets a lot weirder. All the paper
says is that he's suspected of killing his mother, himself…but the rumors are
that she was covered in webs, and bugs, ew…and he's disappeared. Vanished
without a trace."
"He's disappeared?" Clark read what was on the clippings. "That's not weird,
Chloe, that's scary."
She shrugged and pinned the article she printed out earlier on the wall.
"People do strange things in this town, strange things happen. Weird is
Smallville's second biggest export, Clark."
                                  [img-thing]
Whitney found himself dropping by the farm from time to time, and Clark seemed
okay with it. Whitney wondered if that meant he and Clark were sort of like
friends now? If so, they were kind of an odd pair—Clark wasn't a complete
pariah, but popular, he was most definitely not. Whitney on the other hand,
was, and tended to expect the sort of treatment that Clark couldn't imagine. He
never stopped to think about what he did, or how he treated other people, he
never examined any aspect of his life. At least, he never had until the night
he participated in hurting Clark. Now, things weren't as simple. There were
huge areas of his life that he'd begun to question. Lana…he didn't want to
concern her with problems that would only upset her. Clark was willing to
listen, and he was a really good listener. Whitney smiled. Something that Lana
could use a little work on, he had to admit.
In fact, the more time he spent with Clark, the more he thought about his life.
Clark was a decent person, genuinely good. He didn't want anything from
anyone—and Whitney appreciated that. Lana was wonderful but she wanted so much,
needed so much. Being with, hanging out with Clark was sort of a relief from
his buddies' expectations, Lana's and his dad's... when he rolled up the drive
to the farmhouse, he always felt like a lead weight was dropping off his
shoulders. And on the plus side, the Kents seemed a lot less likely to put him
in the cornfield now. They thawed a bit with each visit, and watching the Kents
interact taught him so much about Clark, why he was the kind of person he was.
He wondered if Clark knew how lucky he was.
                                  [img-thing]
"Clark?"
"Oh! Hi, Whit. Come on up."
Whit swung around the post and landed on the loft floor and Clark couldn't help
but grin. Whitney did a little shuffle step and ended up with his arms wide.
"Ta-da!"
Clark's heart skipped a beat at Whit's huge smile. He was finding it harder and
harder to ignore just how good looking Whitney was. There was something about
him, something that drew Clark to him. He grinned as Whit attempted another
ungraceful dance step, one that involved him throwing his arms in the air, and
incidentally, pulling his very tight tee shirt even tighter across his chest.
Clark blinked—a sudden sharp pain jabbed behind his eyes, he closed them
against the suddenly blinding light. They burned so badly he couldn't hold in a
little gasp.
"Hey, you okay?" Whitney moved quickly to stand next to Clark. Clark had his
head buried in his hands, couldn't stop the moans that forced their way out
between tight lips. This pain—this was different; not the same as the other
headaches. It seemed to center on his eyes—they felt like they were exploding.
"Clark, you look terrible—are you sure you're okay—fuck that, you're not okay."
Whitney dropped down on the couch, and reached out, awkwardly patted his
shoulder. The touch of Whitney's hand seemed to make it worse. Echoes of pain
from his eyes shot up his spine, settled right under the place Whit's hand
touched him. He had to get away—Whit needed to stop touching him.
Clark winced. "Whitney, could you just—go? Please?"
Whitney jerked his hand away, stepped back from the couch and shrugged. "Sure,
no problem. I'll talk to you later, Kent." He turned around and walked to the
stairs, took one step down and looked back. "Are you sure you want me to leave?
I—I could stay, make sure you're okay."
He looked like he was angry or something, Clark thought, though it was hard to
tell what went on in Whit's head, and really, at the moment, he didn't give a
shit. He hurt too bad to care. "No." But something made him add, "Unless you
want to. I don't need help."
Whitney looked strangely relieved, and said, "It's okay. I can stay—I should
get your mom though…" he came back and bent a little to look closer at Clark.
"—dude, your eyes are so red…I'm going to get your mom."
"No, don't worry her, there's some pills in my desk, could you get them?"
"Sure," Whit answered and as he walked to the desk, a stab of horror pierced
Clark. The makeup was in the drawer… Whit rummaged about, looking for the
bottle…
There was no way Whit could miss the stuff…okay, he'd just say it was Chloe's
if Whit asked. Not that he'd ask, why should he ask…Clark swallowed and tried
to force his runaway thoughts to a standstill.
The rummaging stopped. For long minutes there was nothing, and then, he brought
Clark the little bottle and said, "These are just over the counter—didn't your
doctor prescribe something?" If he'd seen the makeup, he gave no sign.
"We—I haven't been…I don't go."
"Ever? What the fuck—are you guys in some weird religious thing or something?"
"No. they've just never taken me—"
"Clark, man, that's not right. They should take you—look at you. You're green
and sweating and your eyes look like they're about to burst into flame and
you've been kind of moaning the whole time you've talking to me…you need to
talk to your parents, Clark."
Whitney sat with him for a while, talking about nothing, until the pain finally
eased up and he went home.
After dinner that night, Clark asked his parents to stay in the kitchen for a
bit.
"I need to talk to you guys."
"What's up, Clark?" his dad asked, and his mom came around to sit with him.
They both looked expectant, and a little nervous, and Clark wondered what they
thought was on his mind. His dad asked again what he wanted. "Is something
bothering you?"
"Yes." Clark wondered how to ask—it was a simple question, kind of silly really
but… "Why don't I go to a doctor? Ever?"
That ‘simple question' produced a reaction way out of proportion to what he'd
been expecting. His parents looked at him with a combination of guilt, sadness
and fear and a sort of defeated resignation, too…his mom looked so terribly
tired and his dad looked like he wanted to cry—and that scared Clark worse than
anything else he could imagine. He couldn't remember his dad ever crying. His
heart beat sped up, he had the feeling this conversation had just become a
speeding train and he was on the tracks…
"Jonathan." His mom said his dad's name in way he'd never heard before.
"Jonathan."
His dad took in a long breath, and let it out. "Okay." He really looked bad,
looked like Clark felt like after a killer of a headache. "Clark…son. You know
you're adopted."
Clark nodded. That had been shocking news—but he'd weathered it. What else
could they tell him about his adoption…unless… "Geez—I'm not…I'm not your
brother or anything, am I?"
"What—no!" his dad said and looked puzzled, and his mom smiled a little. Clark
felt his face flush and swore off soap operas forever.
"No. But…come on. Follow me." His dad walked to the back door, and his mom held
her hand out to Clark. "The best way to explain is to show you. Don't worry,
honey. I'm right with you."
                                  [img-thing]
They were in the cellar, and standing in front of a tarp covered shape. His mom
had her arm around him; his dad was standing in front of whatever it was like
he was going to the guillotine. He reached out, grabbed the tarp and pulled,
pulled until the tarp was puddled on the ground, and a thing stood shining in
the dim light. It looked like one of his models. It looked just like… "A space
ship?"
Dad was into making giant models of spaceships? The detail was crazy—it looked
like it'd been through a war. If Dad made it, then he was seriously nuts. But
his mom was pushing him forward, and he was touching it, and there was no way
in hell his dad had made that…it felt…weird. Familiar. He pressed his palm flat
against the surface….
At first, his hand slid over it smoothly…but as he ran his fingers across the
surface, he felt bumps, pits, scratches…he could see pock marks on the surface,
and faint traces here and there that might have been paint—some sort of
markings.
It looked like the surface had been scoured clean, like sandblasted metal.
"What is it?" he muttered. His fingers searched the seams, "Open it."
"We've never been able to open it again."
Clark nodded. Sure. That was the archetypal story line, right? No doubt
somewhere there was a stone too, with a sword stuck in it, waiting for him to
pull it free…open the ship…climb the tower and rescue the fair…the fair…
"All we know is that it's yours," his dad said. "We found you; found this, on
the day of the meteor shower. There's something else too…it has writing on it.
But not like anything on Earth."
"…so what…I kiss it, bleed on it—will that make it open and reveal all?"
Jonathan stared at him; his forehead wrinkled with concern, he said, "You seem
awfully calm…" and his tone of voice was worried.
"What's so strange about this?" Clark shrugged. "I…I almost welcome this. I
like this story better than the one where the little boy is broken into bits
and glued back all wrong and then lied to every day of his life." He stepped
back from his parents, inching away.
"We didn't lie, Clark, we— we just didn't, didn't say anything. The time…never
seemed to. To come," his dad stuttered into silence.
"No. You lied to me. You said I was like everyone else, and I'm not and that
man knew it and that's why he—"
"God, no! No! That was just horrible, but nothing to do with this—nothing!"
Clark shook his head, shook it over and over, backed away from the people he
thought he knew…
Up the stairs, and out in the open air, his calm shattered like glass. He ran
for the loft, and scrambled into a dark corner. How was it possible? How could
it be—maybe they were crazy. That was it—had to be. Aliens and monsters and
magic boys—it was all dreams and nightmares and didn't exist. It didn't exist.
Clark scooted deeper into the corner until he was crouched under his desk, and
he cried. Cried because he was scared, because he hurt, and mostly because he
knew that something in him had been killed. He gasped for breath, and wiped his
face on his sleeve. He shuddered. What did it mean to be alien, if he wasn't
any different from other men…?
"Clark? Clark…" his mother came up the loft stairs, searching for him. She
looked terribly sad when she saw him crouched under the desk. "Son, please—"
"But I'm not your son, am I? I'm not even a human, and I'm not—" He stopped and
wiped his face again, and she sat on the floor as close to him as she could
get.
"I can't imagine how you feel, Clark. I don't know what I can say to make you
feel better, except, we love you, and we didn't tell you because we wanted to
protect you. When you were a child, you were so different…so strong,
almost…invincible. And then, everything changed."
"I got—attacked. Stolen. That's when everything changed. That's when the
nightmares and the pain started. That's when you and Dad started to treat me
differently."
"Clark, we only tried to protect you. You were so—so delicate after. So easily
breakable. We tried to keep you safe." She held her hand out. "Come out, Clark,
please. Come sit with me."
Clark crawled out and sat next to her. She took his hand, and he relaxed a
little, feeling the warmth, the calluses on her palm. She reached up and pulled
his head to her shoulder. "We've always worried about you, Clark. We worried
that you'd never be happy again, we worried when you lost all your—what was
part of your heritage, and then, we worried about you being alone when you and
Pete stopped being friends. Then Chloe came into the picture, and I worried
again, what if you…if you were different in a way we couldn't see…"
"Mom! Oh my God…"
"More than that, Clark—it's why we never took you to a doctor. We can't be sure
x-rays or scans wouldn't show...the truth." She reached into her sweater
pocket. "Here. We found this too. It's yours. Don't know what it is, but it
belongs to you."
Clark held a piece of smooth warm metal in his hand. Symbols were carved into
the piece. He held it for a long moment, and his mom kissed him on the
forehead. "Whenever you want to talk Clark, about anything, you know we're here
for you. Don't be afraid to talk to us son, we love you."
After his mom left the loft, he wrapped the metal piece up, and hid it in the
rafters. Some other day, he'd look at it. When he felt braver.
                                  [img-thing]
It was a Friday night and Clark was playing third wheel to Whit and Lana. Not
that he minded—it was better than sitting at home watching TV with the parents,
and Chloe was in the city with her dad for the weekend, and besides, he needed
to do…just normal things. Whit had invited him, and Lana insisted that she was
happy to have Clark along. She always said she was happy to see Clark, and then
smiled, a little bow of her mouth that went nowhere near her eyes but Clark and
Lana both were good at acting as if everything was just perfect.
"You know Clark, I'm just grateful that when you're along, Whit doesn't talk
about football so much. That's a blessing." She pushed her hair back and
smiled, her rose colored lip-gloss making her teeth look very white, and a
little sharp...Clark smiled back.
"I don't always talk about football," Whitney frowned.
"No, just—frequently. At least when we take Clark along to the movies, we
actually talk about the movie." She laughed a little and Whit pulled her
tighter to him and for some reason scowled at Clark. Clark raised his eyebrows.
Was he angry? He couldn't be jealous—Whit knew better, surely…Clark hung back a
little from them, watching Whitney while he bought tickets, and followed them
into the theater.
They eased down a row of seats and Whitney ended up between Clark and Lana, and
she leaned past Whit and asked Clark to hold the bathtub sized popcorn
container. Clark was a little relieved. This way he wouldn't have to decide
whether he should share the armrest with Whit or not. Somehow, Whitney's elbow
managed to poke him in the side anyway. The suede of Whit's jacket rubbed
against the cotton of his own, and made a noise that kept distracting him. His
elbow was warm. Really warm. Clark bit down on a huge handful of popcorn and
struggled not to think about elbows and lips shiny with butter. Slippery,
shiny, warm…Clark swallowed, and moved as far away as he could in the narrow
seat. Whit's elbow suddenly stopped poking Clark: Whit leaned toward Lana and
kissed her.
Clark ate popcorn like he was starving and stared at the screen. He didn't see
Whit kiss and kiss Lana, slide his hand between her knees.
And when Whit glanced over at him, Clark was totally absorbed in the whirring
chainsaws taking stupid teenagers apart on the screen.
                                  [img-thing]
After, Clark told the two he had a headache, and needed to get home. Lana
peered at him. "You do look a little green…maybe you shouldn't have eaten quite
so much popcorn—the major part of the popcorn," she added with a touch of
snippiness. "All that grease can't be good for you."
Whit shrugged. "Whatever, Kent. No problem."
Clark sat cramped up in the back, on the little shelf pretending to be a
seat—six feet four of him crammed into a space he would have bet his life on
that he couldn't get into. Five feet and two inches of Lana sat on the front
seat with Whitney, completely comfortable and maybe even…a little smug? Clark
scolded himself. She wasn't anything. Smug would mean they were in competition
and that was—nuts.
When they got to the house, Clark crawled off the murder seat and prayed for
the circulation to return to his legs. Whit waved him off, looking completely
disinterested when he tried to thank him for the ride. "Yeah, sure, Kent—see
you Monday." Lana sketched a little wave as they drove off, and Clark headed
for the house as fast as he could.
He ran the gauntlet of his mom and dad—"Are you sure you're okay? It's not a
headache, is it? Do you want to lie down? Do you want pie?" He managed to work
his way out of the house, and out to the loft with a huge slice of pie and a
glass of milk. He trudged up the stairs with a new book under his arm, and pie.
What was it with his mom and her belief in the magic healing properties of
baked goods? He smiled a little, turned on his army of space heaters and
wrapped a blanket around his legs before spreading himself over the couch,
plate balanced on his belly.
What the fuck was wrong with him tonight? Why was he feeling so…sad?
Melancholy… that's what he was feeling. Yeah, great, like some Victorian
heroine. All he needed now was consumption and a shawl. He hated feeling like
that, especially when there was no cause for it. He had friends and hobbies…he
glanced at his desk, still covered with model spaceships and sighed. He was
such a geek. Totally and completely a geek. A clumsy alien geek. With a drawer
full of make-up. He laughed out loud, and laughed again, because if he didn't
laugh, he'd cry. And the fuck he was going to cry. He stuffed a piece of pie in
his mouth and jumped and gagged a bit when a voice said, "Kent—so sick you have
to stuff your face with pie?"
He almost threw the plate from him—the trunk in front of the couch rocked when
he slammed his knee into it, the glass wobbled, dipped and the milk started to
spill, the glass went over the edge—and he caught it. Whit was talking, and
Clark didn't hear a word he said…he'd caught the glass before it fell—no, it
was falling, but he caught it before it actually spilled and that wasn't
possible. Whit seemed not to notice he'd moved. What the hell. The milk. The
milk had just—sat in the air. Frozen. Like a stop motion picture and he'd
grabbed the glass and for a moment it was like being in a soundless bubble. And
then the bubble popped and he could hear Whit and the milk moved around in the
glass and …whoa. Clark grabbed his forehead, because evil dwarves were trying
to drill a hole from his eyeball to the back of his brain. He bent over,
panting. Praying he wasn't about to cry like a three year old in front of the
captain of the football team. He snorted, gasped as a spear of fire drilled
though his forehead.
"Oh, Clark—man, you are sick—I'm sorry. I thought—well never mind what I
thought." Whit went straight to his desk and grabbed the aspirin and brought it
to him, and Clark spared a moment to wonder…Whit knew where his pills were, and
turned up the heaters without asking because Whit knew how cold Clark got when
he had one of his headaches…and lifted the trunk lid, because he knew the extra
blanket was in there, and spread it over Clark's legs. Tucked it around his
feet, like Clark always did for himself. And smiled at him, hands on hips.
"You'll be okay," Whit said.
And Clark wondered. Whitney knew these things about him, how did he know these
things and why did it make Clark feel like…flying, singing, just....
Oh shit. When had he fallen for Whitney?
                                  [img-thing]
Whitney sat next to Clark and watched him sleep, he read a little from the book
Clark had been reading. Weird stuff, all about giant talking killer tigers, but
actually, it wasn't bad.
He glanced at Clark wrapped up like a mummy in his blankets and snoring a
little. There was just enough room for him and Clark and his little weird
looking mutt to sit. The dog kept staring at him, like Whit might suddenly go
nuts and strangle Clark in his sleep. Crazy mutt…he was starting to grow on
him. Everything was growing on him. The dog—Mrs. Kent's incredible dinners, Mr.
Kent and his version of football watching—vocal and active, pillows and
comments flying—and Clark.
Clark was growing on him. He really was what Whit had told him the first time
they actually talked—interesting. Clark was so smart it was almost scary, and
willing to help Whit whenever he asked. He was patient, so fucking patient, and
he was funny as hell. And the minute he hit the school doors, he was none of
that. It was like watching a chameleon. Or…a flower dying.
Whit reached out—hesitated—and laid his hand on Clark's shoulder for a moment.
Buddy eyed it like a snake, curled his lip, but didn't move. Progress. Last
week, he'd had to sit on the desk chair or the floor because Mutt wouldn't let
him sit on the couch—and let him touch Clark? Hell no. Thank God, he was easing
up on the hate. That dog held a grudge like certain females he could name….
Clark grumbled blearily and shook his hand off and Whit reminded himself that
Clark was sound asleep. Clark suddenly flailed in his sleep, waking Buddy and
making him growl. Clark jerked away from, and then pushed closer to Whit,
inching closer and squeezing Buddy until he flopped to the floor with a grunt,
muttering evilly. Clark ended up resting against Whit….Whit swallowed. Lay his
hand on Clark's side and let it rest there. Clark was big, warm, solid. He lay
still under Whit's touch.
Whit sat there for a long time.
I'm walking down a long, long hallway. It's school, but it's not. It's…dark,
like the light is coming from the floor instead of overhead. I'm feeling
nervous—I think I'm supposed to be taking a test. But I can't find the
classroom, and suddenly there it is, and I open the door and it's another long
hallway. There are footsteps coming closer, louder and louder until they're
deafening and I hear my name, someone is calling me, there he is at the end of
the hallway, he's looking at me and he's—touching himself, not like that, just
kind of stroking his arms, his chest, and looking absorbed in it, like it's the
first time he's ever done that. He starts walking toward me, and stained glass
windows all around us turn his pale skin red and purple and blue…he stops right
in front of me, touches my mouth, my neck. He leans in and cups my cheek and
says ‘I have so much to show you Clark; I'm going to make you come so hard….
Clark woke up with a startled snort. That guy again! What the hell was it with
that Lex Luthor guy? Clark blinked his eyes a moment or two. Did he invade that
guy's dreams too? He yawned, the dream already fading and when he tried to
stretch, Clark realized he was spread over Whitney's lap. Thank God, Whit was
sound asleep. His head was tilted back, and his mouth open. He was breathing
fast and shallow. And Clark suddenly realized that Whit was very warm, and
very…hard…crap. Buddy was up and poking his nose into Clark's eye. "Buddy,
stop," he whispered, and at the same moment, Whit moaned, lifted his hips a
little, rocked against Clark, opened his eyes, and froze.
Clark flung himself off the couch. "Wow, it's late, very late, hunh? Want me to
walk you to your truck?" and looked everywhere but at Whit.
Whit nodded, not looking at Clark. He was silent all the way down the stairs,
silent as he climbed into his truck and drove away without looking back.
                                  [img-thing]
Clark wasn't stupid. He knew Whitney was avoiding him, and he knew why. He also
knew that it wasn't his problem, or his fault, and he knew that there wasn't
anything in him that caused it to happen. Clark was completely aware that kids
like him felt that way sometimes. He knew very well what happened to him had
nothing to do with what he was or what he'd done—that it had been a random
bitch-slap of the universe… Clark knew it…but what he felt was different.
So he didn't ask Whitney what was wrong, and he didn't try to talk to him, or
look at him when he passed him in school. Clark left him alone. And Whit left
him alone. And that was good.
Clark sat in the cafeteria, chewing on a sandwich tasty and moist as sawdust
and trying his best to look like he was going over his notes—doing
homework—whatever—just trying not to look like he was surreptitiously checking
Whit out. Salvation came in the form of blonde enthusiasm. Chloe was suddenly
there at his table, launching into conversation without a hello.
"I've been looking all over for you!" she said accusingly, as if he wouldn't be
at lunch at this time of the day—every day. "Listen— Sean Kelvin wants to meet
up at that party tonight…what do you think of him?"
"Um...I don't? He's not bad looking but he's a—a dick, from what I hear," Clark
said and tried to protect his lunch from Chloe's foraging.
"Me too—but he asked me out."
"Oh, no, Chloe, he's really an asshole. I know him from hanging out with—with
Whitney and his friends."
Chloe looked sympathetic as she managed to grab a piece of roast beef from
Clark's sandwich. "So…are you okay?" She knew about Clark's crush, in fact they
spent hours discussing it in detail, and she was always nice enough not to hang
up on him, or fall asleep on him too much…or laugh at him. He blushed a little.
He figured she knew pretty well what this kind of thing felt like.
She snapped at him, "Clark! I can tell you're about to apologize for something
you shouldn't—knock it off."
Clark smiled. "Okay, okay…Chloe, I'm the last one to come to for advice, but I
think Sean's an asshole— I also think you're tough enough to take him. Maybe
you're just what he needs to happen to him."
Chloe jumped up and laughed. "Thanks for making me sound like retribution, farm
boy." She grabbed some chips from his plate. "Meet you in the Torch later?"
He nodded, and watched her float back out of the room. She passed Whit's table
and waved at Lana, and Whit glanced his way. For the first time in over a week,
they actually made eye contact, and Whit looked furious.
Clark sighed and flipped his notebook open again. Not. His. Problem. He was
going to repeat that until he believed it. Clark sat staring at the page until
he finally admitted to himself the letters were dancing on the page and
laughing at him—he grabbed his tray and notebooks and made his way to the
garbage.
"Hey, Kent."
A few guys he knew through Whit were standing by the cans. He flinched
inwardly, before smiling. "What's up, guys?"
They greeted Clark with mild interest. "Haven't seen you around lately. Where
you been? Coming to the party tonight?"
Clark nodded. "I'm thinking about it." He glanced back to Whit and Lana's
table. They were talking to each other, hands all over each other, and
occasionally Lana laughed. She glanced his way, smiled and waved.
He waved back, and threw his garbage into the can so hard it moved a bit. Sean
Kelvin walked past and stopped, eyed him. "Whoa. Temper. What's up,
Kent—someone not paying attention to you?" He smirked, laughed a little
nastily. "Don't worry; they'll be at the lake tonight. Maybe they'll pay
attention then."
Clark tried to move past him, and he grabbed his arm, squeezed a
little—squeezed harder when Clark tried to yank his arm away. "Say, I wanted to
ask you about Chloe—is she flying solo tonight?" He winked.
Clark managed to yank his arm free. "Believe me, Sean, she's not your type."
Sean leaned back, and bounced on his heels a bit as he looked Clark over
slowly. "Is that right? You'd be surprised what my type is. Make sure you come
tonight, Kent. You might have a better time than you think. You and Chloe."
He sauntered away, and Clark was seized with an overwhelming urge to kick him.
Sean was really a major asshole and Clark didn't want Chloe anywhere near him.
 
In the end, Clark decided not to go, and Chloe assured him he'd made the right
decision. "Boring, so boring and you were right about Sean. He tried to hit on
me and when I didn't instantly fling my panties off—"
"Chloe! God."
"—that was the last I saw of him. Anyway, I left not too long after. Oh, by the
way, I saw Pete there."
"Yeah? How is he?" Clark asked almost automatically, and waited for Chloe to
change the subject.
"He told me to tell you hi."
Clark was startled enough to gape at Chloe. She leaned over and closed his
mouth with a finger under his jaw, and a smile. "He did?" Clark smiled a
little. "Well, that's nice."
"Pete's not a complete A-hole not like some I could name."
"No, no, he's not," Clark mused. Even if Pete wasn't his friend anymore, he was
still keeping Clark's secrets. Still protecting him in a way.
***** Chapter 5 *****
 [img-thing]
Clark and Chloe were sitting at their table in the Beanery, heads together as
she explained once again what was so special about the oddities that popped up
in Smallville.
"I think—and I can't get my dad to agree—but I think old Luthor is using that
factory in ways it shouldn't be. Look, see this? It's records of shipments to
the factory, stuff that doesn't actually show up anywhere in the place—" she
spread papers over the table top, papers that were imprinted with the
LuthorCorp letter head, "—like a lot of state of the art medical equipment.
Unless Plant 3 has the most outrageously generous employee benefits package on
the planet…."
"Chloe! You stole these from your dad!"
"No I didn't. He doesn't know anything about these. I found it on my own."
"Chloe, someday you're going to get yourself hurt if you're not careful!"
"Oh please—" she quickly shoved the papers back into her backpack at the sound
of footsteps behind them.
"Hello, you two." Clark shivered and looked up into Lana's eyes. She had her
arm linked through Whit's and was smiling ear to ear. "I wanted to ask you to
come to the party tonight, oh, and you too, Clark. Chloe, can I talk to you
later? I have some things concerning Spirit Week we need in the paper."
Clark looked at his friend. "Yes, Chloe, remember…? The school paper? The one
you're editor of?"
Chloe looked annoyed, but smiled, in a slightly feral way. "I hear you, FB.
Okay, Lana, we'll see you tonight. Whit. How's everything?"
Whit loomed over Lana's shoulder, and Clark tried to shrink inside his clothes.
Whit slid his arm around Lana's waist, looked at Clark and said, "Fine. I'm
fine."
"Well…good," Chloe replied and raised her eyebrows at Clark. "Okay…I'm leaving
now."
Clark blushed and emptied his juice box with an embarrassingly loud noise. Whit
smiled for a lightning quick moment before scowling again.
"Well, good, we'll see you to tonight—oh, by the way," Lana said with a
distinctly unhappy expression, "Sean's been looking for you."
Chloe squeaked, "Me? That putz—"
"No, actually, he was asking about Clark."
                                  [img-thing]
Chloe and Clark wandered around the lakeside, sipping soda from the big red
plastic cups being passed out from the back of truck. She chattered on about
this and that—pretty pointedly trying to distract Clark. Clark nodded, and
tried to laugh in the right places, but he kept glancing back to the ring of
vehicles parked with their lights shining on the lake.
Whitney and Lana were sitting side by side in the bed of his truck, wrapped in
a blanket, giggling and kissing and obviously oblivious to what was going on
around them. Clark stood still and watched….
"Clark!"
"What? Oh, I'm sorry—were you talking to me?"
"Clark…" she laid her hand on his arm and squeezed. "Honey, give it up. That
guy's straight like the ocean's wet."
He dipped his head and nodded. "I…I guess. I just hoped…you know."
She squeezed him again and said, "Listen, I'm grabbing something to drink and
I'll be right back, okay?"
Clark nodded, watched her bounce away, and smiled. Chloe really was a good
friend, oddly caring in her own way.
Clark walked around the shore a little, skirting the fire pit, hoped he
wouldn't run into Sean…
wondered exactly what the guy wanted with him. Sean made him uneasy. Clark had
caught him more times than seemed coincidental staring. Clark snorted—why
couldn't someone he found attractive eyeball him? He strolled on, slowly edging
back into the darkness, wishing he was home already.
"Hello, Clark."
"Pete—" It was a jolt, a shock to be face-to-face with Pete after all this
time. Clark waited for the familiar stab of heartbreak to pierce him, staring
into Pete's handsome face, looking into his bottomless dark eyes…but it didn't
come. A small smile bowed Clark's lips, he was grateful not to have the pain.
Pete looked uncertain, but smiled back. "Having a good time, Clark?"
Clark shrugged. "You know me, Pete. I'm not really crazy about stuff like
this."
"Well…" Pete hesitated, then said, "I hope you manage to have a good time,
Clark. Listen…that Sean guy is asking about you. I told him I haven't seen
you." He looked a little concerned. "He's not a good guy, Clark. I've heard
stuff about him."
"Pete, thanks for looking out, but I'm a big boy. I can probably handle Sean."
Pete swallowed and shrugged. "Yeah. I guess so." He hesitated and then said,
"Talk to you later Clark."
Clark replied, "I'd like that Pete, if we did."
Pete nodded and headed back towards the lakeside.
 
Clark turned towards the group in the headlights just in time to see Whit and
Lana kiss each other like they were never going to have another chance. A trick
of the light made them seem highlighted—as if he was standing right next to
them, could hear every sound they made….
Clark slumped, felt like an idiot. He walked deeper into the dark at the far
shore of the lake. He stood alone; the bonfire on the shore was now distant
flickers of light dancing upwards. Here where it was dark, the light of the
moon turned everything a slivery gray, dashes of sliver danced on the wavelets
running over the surface of the lake. There was the faintest sound of water
lapping at the edge of the lake, laughter and music, the occasional beep of a
horn. His own breath sounded loud in his ears, and he shivered, not really
cold—never really cold—just…an odd feeling ran up his spine.
A twig cracked, and leaves shuffled as someone came towards him from the dark.
"Hey Clark…" Sean staggered forward, his arms wrapped around himself and a
distinctly unwell grimace on his face. He looked blue. His lips curled back
from his teeth when Clark gasped.
"Sean. What are you doing out here in the dark?"
"Nothing. Just…" He looked Clark up and down again, in that slow crawl of a
stare that made Clark want to scrub every bit of his skin. "Whit is never going
to be what you want, you know. Not as long as he has Lana—not as long as he's
in Smallville."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
Sean laughed, sharp, high—walked closer. "You know. I can help you, though. I
can help you not to care anymore."
"What do you want, Sean?"
"Me? I just want to get warm…." Sean groaned when he said it, and reached out
and touched Clark's shoulder and his touch burned—pure and biting, like Lana's
necklace had felt against his skin. He jerked away and gasped as he watched ice
form on his jacket, his skin….
 
"I'm sorry Clark but—I can feel you. I felt you from across the lake. You're so
warm. Hot. I need you," he groaned.
Clark turned, dashed away along the lakeshore; and stumbled over a pile of
blackened driftwood pieces. He snatched a thick branch from the sand, and
turned to face Sean.
"What are you, some kind of hero? Stupid move, Kent—should have kept running."
Clark swung, connected, and Sean jerked away with an angry howl. There was a
moment in which Clark's heart soared—he was safe! He was going to get away—and
then he was falling, feet tangled in the driftwood. The branch flew wide, and
he fell heavily to the wet sand. Sean was over him, fists wrapped in his tee-
shirt as he straddled him.
"God, You're so warm, I need—" He shoved Clark's shirt up roughly, leaving long
scratches on Clark's pale skin, pressed his palms against his chest and Clark
screamed, thought he did—his mouth was wide and his lungs strained but nothing
came out. Clark was paralyzed with fear, with searing pain. The ice cut into
his body, and the unwelcome touch sliced into his soul.
Sean chuckled as he pinned Clark and forced his mouth down over his, moaning
into Clark's mouth as he did. Sean sucked, and the pain grew, soared higher,
higher, Clark thought he could actually hear ice forming on his skin
and—suddenly, Sean was gone.
Whit stood over Clark instead, rage twisting his features, the thick branch of
driftwood in his hands, "Clark, are you—"
With a snarl, Whit whirled around, and hit Sean again just as he leaped at
Clark—hit him hard enough to stagger him back, onto the very edge of the lake.
Whit rushed Sean, and Clark managed to get to his feet and joined Whit, and
together, they pushed Sean off his feet, into the cold water of the lake.
Sean threw his head back and screamed as ice formed and cracked, reformed
around him, pulling him beneath the water. The surface of the lake froze
around, over him…he was completely incased in ice—frozen and still.
Clark dropped to his knees and threw up, shaking in the aftermath of the
assault. Before he could move again, Whit was at his side, his hands all over
Clark, poking and prodding, and if Clark still didn't feel like he needed to
throw up, he might have been able to work up a smile at Whit's mother-henning.
"Shit—I saw you leave, Clark," Whit said, "and I saw Sean follow and I know—I
don't trust him. I know what he does—well. Okay, not that. Fuck." Whit looked
at the lake. "I don't know what the fuck that was."
He helped Clark up, looped an arm under his. "Come on kid, I'm taking you
home."
"Let go, I'm fine," and the weak push against Whit proved that he was anything
but. Clark shivered and shivered, and every place Sean had touched him
burned—his mouth felt puffy and raw, and he winced when Whit hissed at the
sight of his face. Clark figured it must look as bad as it felt. "Chloe can
take me home," Clark insisted—he didn't want Whit's pity and besides—"What
about Lana?"
"She can ride with Chloe. I'll tell her. You need to be home now."
Clark wasn't a complete fool. He knew when to give in. "Okay." He said and
leaned a little on Whit. If he leaned a little more than necessary, Whit didn't
seem to notice. Clark shivered and shivered, felt like he was frozen to the
core. When Whit lifted his arm, put it over Clark's shoulder, it was
wonderfully warm.
                                  [img-thing]
Chloe slammed her little boot heels into the boards as she stomped across the
loft floor, and threw herself down on the couch hard enough to bounce Clark and
Buddy— Buddy wuffed in surprise.
"Chloe—don't do that, you'll set the dust free." Chloe yanked down the top of
the book Clark was reading—trying to read.
"He's gone."
"What? Who?"
"Sean…The Lad in the Lake—he's gone. The lake isn't frozen anymore and the ice-
man's gone."
Clark stared at Chloe.
"I bet," she said, eyes narrowed and staring past Clark, "these things are
connected somehow. Bug Boy, Ice-Man, mutated family pets and disappearing loved
ones—someone is watching this stuff too. I wonder who."
Clark shrugged, and gently redirected her attention to other matters.
                                  [img-thing]
Whit rolled up the driveway, and the crunch of gravel brought Buddy out onto
the porch, barking at Whit, as usual. "Keep it up mutt, and no cookies for
you," he muttered. He parked and walked up to the porch, just as Clark was
coming out, shrugging into a ratty red jacket. He grinned as Whit stopped,
reached into his pocket and tossed Buddy a treat. The little dog snapped it out
of the air, gave Whit a dirty look and stalked off. Clark laughed. "Looks like
you and Buddy are making friends."
"Oh, yeah, Buddy and me are the best friends ever. Really, though, shouldn't he
like me at least a little bit by now?"
Clark shrugged. "He does—he lets you sit on my bed, so. You're getting there."
They walked down the drive, back to the truck. "You're a little late—everything
okay?"
"Yeah, I got held up in traffic by the Home, you know, the one where some of
your class did your community service thing?"
"The Retirement Center, sure…what happened?"
"One of the guys on the emergency squad said some lady died, and one of the old
guys disappeared, and they had cops out looking for him. Just seemed kind of
strange." Whit leaned in the open door of the cab and watched Clark climb in
and settle in the seat. He buckled pointedly and reached up for the visor,
pulled it down and went through the CD's stuck there with a frown.
Whit shook his head. "Dude," he said, "You hate my music and the way I
drive—when are you going to get a vehicle?"
Clark looked surprised by the question and maybe a little hurt. "Let me see,
I'll just squeeze a minute out of the time I spend in school and the time I
spend helping my mom and dad and the time I spend working at the market and
take a couple of bucks out of my enormous trust fund…."
Whit rolled his eyes and yanked the door shut. "Okay, okay, I get it. You were
born a poor white boy. I didn't mean anything."
Clark kept talking. "Not everyone is assured of getting a full ride like you,
Whit," he said. "Some of us have to work hard to keep our grades up and put
money away." Clark stopped, heaved a huge sigh. "I know you get tired of
picking me up all the time, but I've told you before, I really don't mind
walking, I can always get a ride from my dad."
"Yeah, I know. Listen, I'm sorry, I was only—I'm crabby and I'm taking it out
on you." Whit frowned at the windshield.
Clark sighed. "Yeah, instead of who's really pissing you off. You're always the
same whenever you fight with Lana."
Clark turned and stared out the window, and Whit watched Clark watch the road.
"Kent—fuck it, never mind."
"Where are you going?" Clark asked as the truck swung around in the road. "I
thought we were going to meet everyone at the Beanery?"
Whit smiled at Clark and said, "Let's drive around some first…."
 
They were outside of the Wild Coyote and Whit was standing in the lot at the
side of the building, seemed to be watching the people going in and out. He
stopped someone, spoke briefly to the person who greeted him happily, and the
guy nodded his head hard, and turned and grinned, waving at Clark. Clark
blushed and threw a half-hearted wave back…what had Whit told the guy? They
looked really friendly, and the guy leaned over and hugged Whit—slapped him on
the back. He strode off into the bar, and Whit leaned against the wall, looking
casual, waved at Clark once….
The guy came out again and handed Whit a paper bag, slapped his back again,
waved at Clark and went back into the bar.
Whit climbed in the truck and shoved the bulky paper bag between the seats…he
looked at Clark out of the corner of his eye. "What?"
"Who was that?" Clark asked and blushed. Could he sound any more like a jealous
girlfriend?
Whit threw the truck into drive and grinned at Clark, his eyes danced. "Some
guy that was a couple of years ahead of me in school, used to play ball—why?"
"Um, just nosy."
"Yeah?" Whit grinned even wider. "Told him we were going to get our girls and
head up past the lake, get drunk and get laid…" He drove up the road leading
out of town, and turned on the radio—too loud, as always and Clark turned it
down, as always.
Clark frowned, sat back in the seat. "Is that what we're going to do, ‘cause I
don't think…"
"Clark," Whit said quietly, patiently. "I'm not stupid. I'm guessing girls
aren't that big an issue in your life."
"Oh." Clark looked down at his knees and felt his face burn. He shifted
awkwardly in the seat, leaned closer to the window. "Yeah. Not very much, no."
"It's okay, you know. Not every jock is a Neanderthal. Check your stereotypes,
Kent, they're showing." Whitney spun the wheel and they were in darkness,
someplace that Clark didn't recognize. He made out what looked like a public
picnic area—tables here and there, flanked by square metal grills attached to
thick concrete posts by heavy chains. There were lights, mostly by a playground
area, and deep shadows between. Whit parked in the farthest part of the lot,
where the dark was thick. He looked at Clark, and Clark swallowed. He managed
to say, "Well…thanks for…you know. Thanks," before falling silent.
"Oh fuck, are you thanking me for being your friend? Sometimes, you can be a
real idiot, Clark. Tell you what, tonight is going to be a first for you."
Clark pressed impossibly closer against the door, uncertainty oozing out of
every pore. "Ye-yeah?"
"Yep. Tonight, we get you drunk."
                                  [img-thing]
They ignored the tables and were sitting on the tailgate of the truck. Whit
handed Clark another beer, and asked him, "Is it starting to taste better?"
Clark gulped a mouthful. "No. And it needs chips or something, I'm hungry."
"Why didn't you say so?" Whit leaped off the tailgate and rummaged around
inside the truck. "Here." He handed Clark a bag of chips and a small battered
box of chocolates. Clark eyed the candy and Whit said, "So help me God, one
word and you'll be in a world of hurt."
Clark grinned. "How fucking pathetic is that?" He crowed. "She threw them back
at you! You went after Lana with chocolates and she threw them at you!"
"You're a mean drunk, Kent. And for your information—okay yes, she did."
Clark broke open the box and bit into the chocolate with vicious satisfaction.
"Good. I mean not good—I mean, that was corny. Why didn't you just talk to
her?"
"You can't talk to her." Whit slid up next to Clark again, and took the
chocolate piece Clark had already bit into out of his hand and ate it. Clark
bit his lip—the action sent a bolt of electricity through him. He frantically
grabbed for the next piece and shoved it in his mouth and chewed quickly.
"I mean, she's relentless, but only when it concerns her, otherwise you might
as well be speaking in tongues or something." He chomped down on another piece
and made a face. "Ech. Here—it's caramel." Clark gaped, and Whit shoved the
half-eaten candy in his mouth, and licked his fingers.
Clark groaned and shifted. "Is it hot out here, or is it just me…?" Clark was
feeling a little crowded on the tailgate. Whit kept on talking about Lana.
"Don't get me wrong, she's a hell of a girl and everything you could want but
sometimes…" he shrugged, opened another beer and drank quietly. Clark ate a
handful of chips and tried not to stare when Whit tilted his heed back and
drank. Tried not to imagine what it would look like to see Whit sweating, head
back, groaning…Clark made a little sound and shifted slightly.
Whit crushed the can, and the sudden noise startled Clark out of his fantasy.
He said, "Let's go look at the sign."
"Sign?" By an act of will, Clark kept from looking at his lap.
"The meteor sign, the stupid piece of shit up on the Smallville road."
"Oh, yeah, okay." Clarks head was spinning a little. He grinned and loped
around to the side of the truck. "Woo! Let's roll!"
"God, no more beer for you, Clark."
                                  [img-thing]
They stood across the road from the sign; and Whitney tossed rocks at it,
trying to hit the M in Smallville. A rock connected and they cheered. Clark
tried to high-five Whit and tripped, landing heavily in the dirt at Whitney's
feet. Whitney gently pushed him more or less upright with the toe of his boot.
"Did you see I hit it? Not bad, right? Can you hit the M from here?"
Clark giggled and fell over. "Whit—I couldn't hit the fucking sign from here."
"Whoa, Clark, mouth on you. You're so different drunk."
Clark grinned up at him from the dirt, arms and legs spread wide, and a huge
grin plastered on his face. "Good different, or bad different?" His arms and
legs moved idly.
Whit shrugged. "Different." He didn't elaborate, just threw another rock and
the ‘tock' it made as it hit the center of the M made him grin briefly. He
glanced down at Clark. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Making dirt angels." Clark swept his arms and legs in dusty arcs and giggled.
Whit looked down into Clark's bleary smiling face, and burst into laughter.
"See, Clark? Stuff like this is why we're friends. Only you would make dirt
angels. Hell, only you could put dirt and angels in the same sentence." He
reached down for Clark's hand. "Come on, get off the road."
Clark took his hand and pulled, and for a second, Whit was staggered. Clark was
pulling him off his feet—and then he winced and his grip loosened. Whit was
able to yank him to his feet easily. "Let's walk. I can't bring you home
drunk—and by the way, what a lightweight, Miss Two Beer Drunk."
"Hey! That's not nice. And I know how the saying really goes…" Clark frowned at
Whit, and then grinned slyly. "Do you know?"
"Ah-ah, Clark—walk." Whit put his hand in the center of Clark's back and
pushed. Clark giggled but walked and they marched down the road and back, Clark
stumbling and snickering and Whit biting his lip to keep from laughing. "Come
on, damn it—your folks are going to kill me, and they were just starting to
forgive me—"
Clark slowed, and stopped. He said, "Everything is so different from that
night. I hated you so much after, I thought you were an asshole—"
"Hey!"
"—it's true, at least until you stood up, acted like a man. And making those
guys apologize in public like that. It was cool, and kind of embarrassing. But
mostly cool."
"Clark, you just don't get that you're a great guy. You—you don't worry about
acting like everyone thinks you should. You're true to yourself. I like that. I
want to be like that."
"But you are."
"No, I'm not. I'm the captain of the team, I'm the boyfriend of the
cheerleader, I'm the son of Mr. Fordman, and I'm Mr. Fucking Popular—big dick
on campus." He picked up a rock and whirled, threw it at the sign behind them.
"Got it," he muttered.
Clark sighed. "Whit, don't complain. None of those things is bad—people would
kill to have what you have."
"Hah. My dad wants me to live his dreams. He pushes and pushes me to be what he
wants and he's never once in my whole fucking life asked me what I want."
"I know it feels like that sometimes but I don't think that's really what your
dad wants for
you—"
Whit shook his head. "And then, there's Lana…she wants me to be there for her,
and I don't even know what the fuck that means." He stared at Clark. "Do you
know—what a woman means when they say that? Be there to what—let them cry on
you? What?"
"I'm not a fucking girl, Whit. I don't know what women mean, either. She's your
damn girlfriend—you love her. Don't you ever try to think the way she does?"
"Clark…" Whit turned and walked off, right into the corn, and Clark followed,
pretty much like Whit figured—hoped— he would. He walked on in silence for a
bit, and Clark walked behind him, silent also. Only the crunch of their
footsteps and Clark's harsh breath seemed real to him. The call of night birds
and the distant sound of traffic just made the place in the field seem more
quiet, more isolated…almost magical, he thought but hey, he wasn't a farm kid.
This must seem stupid to Clark, this tramping through vegetables in the dark.
He stopped and stared skyward. "Clark. This, that just happened? Us walking
like this?"
Clark turned to stare at him. He gave Whit a look that was puzzled but also a
little amused. "Yeah?"
"If I'd come here with Lana, the minute I walked into the corn, she would have
been all over me. ‘What are we doing—why—what's wrong—are you crazy—my shoes…'"
Whit snorted. "She wants to know everything all the time—I get it kind of. I
mean, what with her parents getting killed in the meteor fall and all. Doesn't
make for an enjoyment of the spontaneous."
Clark snorted and looked guilty for a second.
"Anyway. The point is that you're just…cool with it. You're easy to be around.
I like you a lot, Clark."
"That's…great. I'm glad. I think of you as good friend, too."
Whit laughed. "Yeah. So, feel a little better? More…you know," Whit waggled his
hand, and grinned. "You really seemed drunk back at the road."
"I think you can safely take me home without getting killed." Clark grinned at
Whit, and Whit laughed again, walked past him—then turned, grabbed Clark, and
kissed him. Solidly, unmistakably, a kiss. He grabbed the waistband of Clark's
jeans, shoved his fingers in.
                                  [img-thing]
Clark thought his heart would stop—he pushed back, hard, shouted, "What are you
doing! Stop!"
"But…but I thought you liked me—I thought you wanted—when you said about the
two beer thing—"
"God!" Clark tried to run, but Whitney was faster, and stronger, and he caught
Clark before he got out of the corn. He hit hard, and tipped them both over.
Clark ended on his back, the air knocked out of him and staring blindly into
the sky, just…blank. Blank inside. Whatever happened next, it was his fault. He
was stupid for trusting Whit. He should have known better—guys were going to
hurt him one way or another—it was his fault for being what he was. This was
what happened…this was the lesson learned again….
 
A wall inside him broke, and Clark was crying, harsh gasps that tore through
him, filled with regret and guilt and sorrow…
"Please don't cry, please don't, I could never hurt you, I'm not trying to hurt
you, Clark please…"
Clark heard it over and over and it took him a minute to realize that Whit
wasn't moving except to rub his hand, over and over murmuring, "I won't hurt
you," like a mantra.
Clark took a deep, shuddering breath. Whit flinched, and quickly moved back
until only his hand touched Clark's jacket sleeve. His fingers were twined in
the cloth and he looked on the verge of tears himself. "I'd never ever hurt
you. I was stupid and made a mistake and I thought…that I could maybe, you
know, kiss you fast and it would be okay and it would be past us and then we
could just…be. What we are."
Clark laughed, the laugh trembling high and sharp, shivery with hysteria. "I
thought—" Clark went on in a rush, "I thought that you were going to ra-rape
me. St-stupid, hunh?"
Whit face twisted in horror. "Clark, no!" Whitney struck himself in the
forehead. "Ow—I never thought what it would seem like to you—fuck, I'm such an
asshole. ‘Specially after what happened to you when you were a little kid. I
should have realized."
"I'm not made of glass, for fuck's sake."
Whit eased closer. "Clark—kid—you nearly had a heart attack." He put his hand
carefully, lightly, on Clark's chest. "I can feel your heart even now—it's
beating like a rabbit. You're white as a ghost. I almost scared you to death."
Clark shook his head, and his hand rose and gently moved Whit's away. "I should
have known you wouldn't hurt me like that. But you were acting kind of weird
tonight and I wasn't sure what to think. I should have known. Sorry."
"Don't apologize, please. It's my fault, not yours. Damn, Chloe's right, you do
apologize for everything."
Clark pushed himself up until he was sitting facing Whitney. "You talk about me
to Chloe?"
Whit blushed a little, and nodded, eyes on the ground. "Yeah, well…sometimes.
It's how I knew about—but mostly just when you confuse us."
Clark laughed, a little shaky, but it was a genuine laugh. "So you guys talk
about me like, all the time, then?"
                                  [img-thing]
Whit didn't try to kiss, or touch Clark, again. He drove him home and walked
him into the house, and they drank sodas on the porch, and when he finally left
to go home, he leaned close. Clark closed his eyes and waited for a kiss or
something….
Whit whispered, "You're my best friend."
When Clark opened his eyes again, Whit was gone.
                                  [img-thing]
Clark sighed, and spread his arms and legs wide, he felt as free and as light
as he had making dirt angels. He smelled the slightly sharp almost smoky smell
of dust, and a green smell…corn. He smiled. Sunlight beat down on him, warming
the parts of him exposed to light. It felt like being kissed from his head to
his feet and no sooner did he think that than little drops of moisture touched
him all over…rain.
Or…no, not rain, the moisture was warm, and he felt soft lips press and ride
him…glide over his skin, touches light as feathers floating over him, wet heat,
a tongue slid around his navel. He gasped and his dick throbbed. His eyes were
still closed and he begged the tongue silently…lower, lower…the trail flowed
downward, his heart tried to rise out of his chest and thumped hot in his
throat …his breath came in a gasp…his dick felt heavy, and an urge to
do...something fought to break free. The wet heat became silky smooth and
dripping around his dick, he felt a breeze slide over him like hands. His dick
strained against air, he strained against clouds, the sky…tight and tighter and
he thought I'm going to open my eyes and he did and looked down, blonde hair,
blue eyes and a red mouth full of his dick and the something became orgasm.
I wake up with a gasp…I'd been dreaming about Whit. Whit, Whit with his blue
eyes, and that look on his face, like he wants everything from me…my dick is
pressing against the sheets, hard, I can feel were the damp boxers cling to
me…I push up from the bed, and hit my head….on the ceiling. Fuck! The pain
makes me wake up all the way…I'm floating, I'm in the air! Instead of being
scared, it makes me more hot. Feels like I'm about to explode, like there's
something pushing inside that needs to come out now, right now…I look up and
the ceiling is gone and the sky's up there, this weird shade of blue, or maybe
gray, and a storm is coming, the closer the clouds come the more that feeling
grows, I can't stop, I'm shivering and heat is filling me, more and more, and
my muscles clench and I can't stop it from…
Clark woke up, panting…he had the vague impression of a dream within a dream,
but as he reached for it, it was gone. All he remembered was floating—he hated
dreaming that he was floating. It was creepy, and reminded him that no matter
how he acted or what he felt like, he wasn't what he seemed to be. He rubbed
his eyes and groaned a little, swung his feet over the edge of the bed and sat
hunched over, with his head in his hands, waiting for the rest of him to wake
up.
What he seemed to be…that was the question, wasn't it? Sometimes, he felt like
he was going to go crazy with shoving things into mental boxes. And the secret
that actually had meaning in his life…seemed like not much of a secret, and he
still hadn't told his parents, and crap—he was going to have to tell them soon.
He shouldn't worry about it—how could they not be okay with it? After all, how
much harder was it to accept that your son was gay, after you'd already
accepted that he was from outer space?
He finally made it downstairs, not exactly bright eyed, but awake. He grabbed a
cup of coffee and a hug from his mom, and headed out to start his morning
chores—first, the barn and feeding the calves. It was the best part of his
morning—it was never boring, that was certain.
It was a little chilly; the sun that was beginning to warm the outside hadn't
quite managed to pierce the shadows in the barn. He mixed together the oatmeal,
corn and other grains the calves were fed, and mixed in vitamins, and poured it
out into buckets for the babies. He smiled as they jostled together, each
trying to get the best spot. He grinned, and broke into laughter when one of
them looked up at him with an expression that reminded him an awful lot of
Whit's princess….
 
The morning rolled along, like any other morning on the farm. He headed out to
the milking shed, grabbed a broom and turned on a hose, and went to work on the
floor. It needed to be clean before the cows were let in. He concentrated on
sweeping dirty water into the drains that lined the center of the shed, hummed
to himself as he worked. The smell of wet concrete and cow was as familiar and
comfortable to him as the smell of hay and turned soil and rain…the routine was
so familiar, he didn't need to think about what he was doing, and he spent most
of the time daydreaming, planning his fabulous future life….
The floor was done, and Clark tucked his gloves into his belt and checked the
milking machines next, made sure all the hoses were clean, and in good shape.
He heard his dad talking to one of the hands out in the yard as he worked,
tuned them out. There were a couple of guys who worked on the farm, but Clark
didn't really know any of them. He tended to avoid older men—though as far as
he could tell, most of the guys seemed all right. The only one of them that he
talked to occasionally was Earl Jenkins. He was real nice, quiet, and
comfortable to be around. There was something soothing about him—his deep,
slightly rough voice, his always thoughtful expression…he was a good guy.
Clark stretched, yawned, and felt a little zing behind one eye—a flick of pain
that went as quickly as it came, and looked up to see Earl in the doorway. He
smiled at the coincidence, and Earl smiled back.
"Hey, Clark, where's your dad? I need to talk to him quick."
"He's over with the tractor, Mr. Earl. I think they're loading the trailer."
Earl nodded his thanks and walked off. Clark rubbed his thumb between his
eyebrows. Weird. He hadn't gotten one of these headache things in ages. He
grabbed the big broom and shoved it once more across the concrete floor and
remembered the odd dream he'd had recently…his invisible dream friend had put
in a rare appearance and fixed the fence line with him. Clark laughed—it had
been a cool dream, his friend and him banging those posts right into the ground
with their fists. He snorted and swirled the broom. Yeah. Like banging them in
like that wouldn't splinter the tops, crack them so they'd rot quicker. But it
sure had been neat to do it, and to watch his dream friend bang them in…oh.
Clark wondered if that was some sort of sexual metaphor--did he want to bang
his dream friend? He giggled.
"Wow, what are you, like a Disney character or something? Giggle while you
work?"
Clark jumped and the broom hit the concrete with a clatter. "Oh God, Chloe, you
scared the crap out of me—what are you doing up at this time of the morning?"
"Clark, I'll have you know I get up plenty early." She held up a takeout cup of
coffee and shook it at him. "Just let me drink about fifty of these, and not
only will I be awake, I'll also be sentient."
"I'm almost done here anyway…hold up." Clark put the broom and the
disinfectants back in the cleaning cabinet. "Hey, do you want to come up to the
house for breakfast?"
"Well, duh," she said. "Why else would I come at the break of dawn? Besides to
see you, of course."
"Unh-hunh. And for your information, it's not the break of dawn when it's eight
o'clock, Chloe…"
"Oh shut up, FB."
                                  [img-thing]
They walked into the kitchen, and the good smell made Clark smile. This was
shaping up to be a great morning—company for breakfast and his mom was making
waffles.
"Hey, Mrs. Kent, I found him hiding in the milking shed," Chloe crowed.
His mom's face lit up when she saw him with Chloe; she smiled at him in a way
that told him he seriously needed to talk to his folks—and soon. Chloe was
looking at him, nibbling at her lip, and it was plain to see what she was
thinking. Clark scowled at her. He wouldn't put it past Chloe to tell his mom,
thinking she was helping him out. He didn't need help. He wasn't really afraid
to tell them…it was just…it had to do with his private life. This wasn't
telling them he really liked root beer, this was telling them stuff that…was
deep, and personal, and about sex, and about life, and things that everyone
around him said would send you to hell. The thing was, he had no idea exactly
what his folks thought about stuff like this, and he had no idea how to ask,
and kind of was afraid to find out….
"I brought you a coffee too, Clark," Chloe was saying, and Clark looked at the
mass of whipped cream trying to escape from the plastic top of another takeout
cup, and said, "No Chloe, that's coffee," and pointed at the hot, black, coffee
his mother was pouring into mugs.
"Philistine," Chloe muttered and licked foam off her lip. "So, I know you heard
about the big party Lana's aunt is throwing for her…at the Cotillion Ballroom,
I think. You know how her aunt is all about appearances..." she shrugged. "You
haven't asked me yet, but don't worry, I'm saving you the trouble. I'll come
pick you up—trucks are hell on dresses."
"Well," he glanced at his parents and they seemed more than willing to let him
go. Sure, they wanted him to go out and do the Heterosexual Dance. Prove that
he was okay. Clark sighed in exasperation with himself. They were thinking no
such thing…yet. "Let me think about it, Chloe. I might have to do something
else."
Chloe looked puzzled and then a look of understanding bloomed, her mouth open
in a big "OH." That irritated Clark almost as much as his parents look of
expectation. Clark attacked his waffles and ignored anything else.
 
After breakfast, Clark walked Chloe to the car. As he was opening the door for
her, she stopped him. "So, what's the deal with you and Whit?"
"Why ask? You know the deal."
She shook her head, sending wisps flying around her face. "Oh, no—this is about
you ditching us yesterday."
"No, we didn't, we just...lost track of time. He…likes me. I think he likes me
back." He smiled shyly, and Chloe frowned.
"Clark, don't get too hung up on him. He might be curious but he's got a girl.
One that he's not going to leave. I mean, he's all over town, groping her in
public places…the town I mean, not her. Not groping the town, I mean—"
"Chloe, shut up. And I'm not living a fantasy…from the way he talked, I don't
think that they're going to be together much longer."
"Oh fer…wake up and smell the pumpkin spice with extra cream and two sugars
iced coffee, Clark. This is Smallville. SMALL ville, and he's an aspiring
professional football player—professional sports are death on gays. Hello? He
can't be anything but straight—which I think he is, it's just you he's
fascinated with, for some reason. I mean, the other day, he bought some
chocolates and some whacky purple lip-gloss for Lana. Does that sound gay to
you?" She stopped and thought. "Well, it does actually, but you get my drift."
Clark stared at her for a long moment. "Are you stalking him?"
"No!" She pushed Clark and he staggered into the car with a laugh. "Anyway,
Lana's starting to get a clue about you. She really doesn't like you."
"Oh no--does she know?" Clark was horrified. If Lana knew, she could make his
life miserable, make Whitney's life miserable.
"No, no— not like that. She senses something's up but her ego won't let her go
there."
Clark nodded. Okay. "But…he did try to kiss me. He said he wanted to…you know.
Things."
Chloe sighed, sympathy in her eyes. "Clark, maybe if this was another town or
another time or something, we wouldn't be having this conversation and you and
Whit would be out picking china patterns, but it's not. Don't let yourself get
hurt, please? I love you." She leaned over and kissed his cheek. "You're my
best friend."
Those four little words froze Clark to the bone. "Yeah…yeah, you too," and he
pulled her close for a hug.
***** Chapter 6 *****
 [img-thing]
The morning had been a total waste. Clark had no idea what went on in any of
his classes—his mind had been a million miles away, the only thing he could
focus on was Whitney. Clark needed to see him, to know if their friendship had
broken beyond repair. He seemed all right with it last night, Clark thought,
but if he was nervous, Whit had to be even more so….
At the bell, he shoved his stuff in his locker and headed for lunch, looking
for Chloe…and for Whit. He saw neither of them, but he did see Pete.
Pete was smiling, talking to heavy blonde girl, what was her name...Jody. Clark
watched him for a bit. He still felt flashes of regret from time to time, still
missed Pete, a little bit. Missed having a friend like that. Clark sighed. At
least now he could look at Pete, even speak to him, without feeling broken.
Clark's melancholy was interrupted by Chloe bursting through the doors on the
opposite side of the hall, and heading like a guided missile straight for Pete.
She caught sight of Clark and waved. He smiled back—just as Pete looked up.
Pete started to smile and then seemed to realize the smile wasn't for him and
glanced away. Clark's chest fluttered… when Pete looked up again, Clark made
sure he caught his eye and gave him a big smile…one that Pete returned with a
little surprise. It was surprising how good it made him feel.
Chloe chatted on with Pete and Jody—she turned down the offer of a sip of some
sort of green shake Jody was drinking. Clark grimaced at the sight; it looked
horrible even from where he was. He started to walk closer, but two things
happened at once; a headache tried to split his head open, and Whit and Lana
walked into the hall, together. So together that any closer and they'd be
having sex, Clark thought bitterly and groaned as his headache went up a notch
or two. Whit looked his way at the sound; his eyes lingered on Clark's for a
second before sliding back to Lana, he walked past him with a barely a nod of
acknowledgement.
When Clark turned back to Chloe, Pete was arguing with a jerk of a kid named
Dustin who was pointing and laughing at Jody, and she was running out of the
hall, her face and clothes spattered with the green goop she'd been drinking.
As she ran past, Clark gasped and grabbed the back of his head. For a brief
moment the pain was blinding and his stomach and the room spun—a warm hand
cradled his elbow.
"Clark, are you okay?"
He opened his eyes slowly. The hall was blurry, and still doing gentle swoops.
"Yeah, yeah, Chloe…I'm fine."
"You're not fine; let me take you to the nurse's office." She pulled gently on
his arm, and led him out into the hallway.
Pete followed, and echoed Chloe. "Clark…you should go to the nurse with Chloe.
You really look bad."
"Thanks a lot," he muttered, and managed a small smile at Pete. They stopped in
the hallway so Clark could regain his balance. He leaned against the wall,
breathing in and out until the headache was bearable. Chloe asked him again if
he was okay, and instead of answering, he jerked his chin towards the table
Whit sat at. "You're right," Clark said, and watched as Whit slid his hand up
and down Lana's back, laughed at something she said. She leaned over and kissed
him and he kissed her back, and grinned as catcalls erupted around their table.
They were touching each other all over and simpering away, and Clark felt like
an asshole, a pathetic one.
Chloe pulled on his arm, "Clark, you're making it obvious," and he looked down
at her, from what felt like miles and miles away. Pete looked sympathetic,
maybe a touch uncomfortable, but not unkind.
"I'm going over there." Clark pulled his arm loose, and Pete tried to stop him.
"Clark, no, you shouldn't…."
He pulled free of Pete, and walked back in the hall, to Lana and Whit's table.
Whit didn't look up, or acknowledge him until the other guys sitting at the
table did, and Lana frowned before manners made her ask him to sit with them,
but Clark shook his head. "No—I don't feel too good. I just stopped to say hi."
"You okay? Want someone to take you to the nurse's office?" Fred, one of the
guys sitting at the table asked, and started to get up.
Clark was startled by the offer. "No, that's cool, thanks." He caught Whit's
quick glance—at Fred, at Lana "…um, se-see you." He didn't have to see his face
to know it was blood red, he could feel the heat burning his cheeks.
He walked slowly back to Chloe, and refused to look at her.
"I'm sorry, Clark, but I told you…"
"Please shut up, Chloe."
Pete said, "Clark, if you want I can take you home. I drove today."
"Thanks, Pete, but no. I'll be okay. I feel better now." He finally convinced
Chloe that he really was fine, and that he'd make it just fine the rest of the
day, and not to worry. He walked to the bathroom, grateful to be alone. He
opened the cold water tap, and let it run, before wetting his face. The cool
water helped—his face was still red, still hot. He blotted it dry with a paper
towel. Stared at himself in the mirror, looking for some sign, some reason that
Whit would treat him that way. He got that he couldn't grab him and kiss him in
front of all the school, sure— but to act as if he didn't exist…what an asshole
that guy was. What an asshole Clark was for thinking once again they had
something special.
After a few minutes the door opened.
"Clark…I'm sorry, are you okay?"
"Just…leave me alone."
"I brought you some aspirins, if you still need them." Whit walked up to Clark,
took his hand and pressed the pills into his palm. He squeezed Clark's
shoulder. "Sorry. I can't…can I please talk to you later?"
"It's a free country, Whit—you can do whatever you want," Clark said. He looked
down at the pills in his hand, rolled them around. "Thanks." Turned away to the
sinks, tossed the pills into his mouth and swallowed. He let a little water
fill his palm, and sucked it up, too aware Whit was watching him like a hawk.
Whit pushed backwards out the door. "I'll explain later—really, I'm not
avoiding you." He let the door shut and Clark took a deep breath. Well….
The door opened again and Whitney caught his eye. He said seriously, "Okay,
sorry. I am, a little bit. But I'm not sorry, about the you-know. Not sorry at
all." Whitney smiled at him before letting the door shut again.
Clark caught sight of himself in the mirror. Pink cheeks, big goofy grin…he
rolled his eyes. He was entirely too damn easy….
                                  [img-thing]
That evening, Clark got a phone call from Whitney, who explained he'd been on
the run the last few days, and he had a tryout the next afternoon with Kansas
State. Clark listened to him and couldn't stop smiling—Whitney was so excited,
so worried, was so much in need of reassurance. Clark did his best, told him
over and over that yes, it would go well, and they'd be idiots not to realize
how great Whitney was and for God's sake, Whit, stop worrying.
"I will, I will…I just…I wish you could come with me," Whit whispered into the
phone. "It would be great to spend a weekend in the city…the hotel room looks
real nice." He laughed nervously, and Clark smiled.
"Someday, maybe. Go get packed, I'll talk to you when you come back."
"Yeah…unh, when I get back, I need to talk to you about some stuff—and I've got
to take Lana out someplace nice for her birthday since I'm missing that party
tomorrow. Can you do me a favor, and…and be her escort for the evening? As a
favor for me?" He laughed again, that same short, nervous, bark of laughter.
Clark closed his eyes. There she was again…wherever he turned, Lana was
there…he was silent, and Whit was silent, and then said, "Okay, I better go.
I—see ya."
"Yeah." Clark hung up and cursed himself for a fool.
                                  [img-thing]
Clark's parents were gone for the evening, and the house was too quiet, and the
loft wasn't much better. He walked around feeling as if his shoulders were
cracking under the weight of the world. He had no one who really loved him, and
he was never going to have anyone in this town. He was made to be alone, to
live his life with no one at his side…he rubbed the heel of his hand across his
eyes and sighed. The worst part was that Whit was leaving, didn't care, and
tomorrow, nothing was going to change… Clark's heart hurt, his soul hurt. He
needed to be free for just a little bit, to not think about all this for a
while….
He sat at his desk, adjusted the lamp, and stared at himself in the mirror for
a long time, looking, thinking. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and
when he opened them again, he felt—lighter. He took out his makeup, and
smoothed foundation over his face, and took a brush, and using what he learned
from magazines, he applied blush, highlighted and contoured until he was
pleased with the results. Shadow and liner came next, chosen to bring out the
green of his eyes, and he tilted the mirror to see the effect. Nice. He'd had
to guess on the shades…it wasn't as if he could ask someone. He laughed
quietly, opened a tube of lipstick…his favorite part. He loved the feel on his
lips, the taste, the color, loved gliding the tip of his tongue over the
slickness. When he'd smoothed a coat on, he examined the total effect. He liked
it. Brushing his hair around his face made it look softer…there was nothing he
could do about his jaw, his throat—but he didn't want to—this was fine, this
was enough.
He closed his eyes and sat very still, finding his center, finding…control.
Ease. He hummed quietly to himself, and thought about putting on the silk robe
he'd gotten from Chloe, the one with red and gold butterflies all over, it was
butt ugly and bought as a joke, but it did feel very nice against his skin…he
looked at himself in the mirror and wondered, what would Whit think? Hell,
Whit—what if his parents found him looking like this? He shivered. They'd
stroke out, no doubt, just like any of his friends would…he took one more look
at himself and sighed, reached into the drawer for the wipes he kept there. He
grabbed a few, tossed them on the table top and walked over to the window and
took a quick look—he'd thought he heard a truck engine but there was no truck
outside, no one in the drive.
He turned, ready to go back to the desk and found himself looking into a pair
of shocked blue eyes.
"Oh crap," Clark whispered. Now, he thought, would be the perfect time to have
a heart attack. A really big, fatal heart attack.
"Fuu-uck."
Clark stared back at Whit who stared at him open-mouthed, crushing a forgotten
paper bag in his hands. Whit took a step forward, said. "What…you…there's…" and
stammered into silence.
Clark's hands rose slowly, slowly to his face, his mouth dropped open and his
eyes closed, tight. In the dark now, he waited for—a punch, curses, the sound
of feet pounding back down the stairs—why was it that death never took you when
you wanted it to?
"Clark, look…"
Clark cracked his eyes open, peeked between his fingers at Whit. Whit held out
the bag, and said, "Um, this is for you," looked at it as though it had
suddenly grown in his hand. He grimaced and tossed the mangled bag on the
couch. He took a step back, away from Clark, and swallowed hard.
The look on his face set Clark off—anger overtook fear. "So, what are you going
to do now? Run tell everyone? Beat me up? Take off and never come back? Or
maybe just ignore me, pretend you don't know me?" he took a step forward, for
every step Whit took back, Clark took one closer. "Shit, I'm used to that. Go
ahead—say it! I'm even more of a freak than you thought, right?" Clark laughed,
and felt like he was coughing up razor blades. "You have no idea."
Clark's words broke through Whit's fog of confusion. "God damn it, Clark—don't
you ever listen to anyone but yourself? I told you I was your friend—what the
fuck do I have to do to prove it, get ‘I'm Clark's Friend' tattooed on my damn
forehead? Shit!" Whit pushed past him and threw himself down on the couch.
Clark gaped at him. "Geez, Clark—I knew before this. I saw your stuff—I'm
always in the drawer, getting you aspirin or something. You know that I know.
Here." Whit held up the bag. "Open it." He dipped his head, looked up at Clark
through his eyelashes and Clark felt warmer.
Clark took it and unrolled the crumbled top, looked inside. "Oh." There was a
tube of a really wild color of purple gloss inside.
"I'm—I don't know. I wanted to get you something, but I don't know what books
you want, or what music, and then I thought well, maybe that stuff is too much
money anyway, and swear to God, I'd kill myself before I got you flowers
and—okay, this is almost as bad…fuck, it's stupid, isn't it?"
"Whit." Clark sighed. He leaned over and rubbed Whit's shoulder. "This is
really nice. It is. It's-it's a hideous color, but—"
"Hey!" Whit laughed and batted Clark's hand away, then grabbed it to pull Clark
down next to him. He quieted, his smile faded and he asked softly, "So…this…is
this why you can't buy a car? Are you saving money for a—a sex change?"
"WHAT?" Clark yelled, and fell off the couch laughing.
Whit watched Clark laugh with a growing scowl. His cheeks flushed bright red
and finally he snapped, "Knock it the fuck off, Kent. It's not funny."
Clark gasped and nodded, "You're right, it's not funny. I was just—Whit, when
you came up the stairs, I was so afraid you were going to kill me. And instead
you…give me a present." He shook his head, a soft smile on his lips, "No Whit,
this isn't what I am, it's what I do. Does that make sense? ‘Cause that's as
close as I can get to explaining…" He reached out, and Whit pulled him to his
feet, and Clark sprawled on the other end of the couch. He looked at Whit and
grinned. "You have no taste, but you're a good guy."
"Yeah? Thanks, I guess." Whitney snorted. "I should have my butt in bed,
instead of coming out here to reassure you. I mean…oh boy."
"What do you mean?" Clark leaned forward. "What exactly do you mean, and in
English, if you please?"
"God, Clark." Whit rolled his eyes. "What do you think I mean? I don't really
have time to spare but I'm sitting here with you instead of down the road."
Clark raised an eyebrow, and Whit growled. "Instead of with Lana, okay? Geez."
He leaned closer, and inhaled. "Wow. It's so wild—you really look incredible.
Really beautiful."
Clark smiled, and Whit reached for him, gently, his hands barely making
contact. Clark told himself if Whit tried to kiss him this time, he'd let him.
He wanted him to—maybe he should kiss Whitney first. Whit pressed his lips to
his cheek, inhaled again. "I like the way you smell," he said.
"It's just soap, from the shower this morning, and deodorant…well, not so much
now," Clark said after a quick sniff of himself.
"Yeah, that's what I mean," Whit whispered. "I like that you smell like you…"
Whit's thumb traced the line of his lip, and it made him quiver, it moved along
his cheek, and his jaw, and pressed down just a little… "Oh," Clark breathed,
and felt a tug in his gut, and Whit's eyes burning on him made the tug grow. It
was a wave now, flowing from his gut down…lower. Clark felt his mouth open,
heard himself say. "Kiss me," and Whit sighed. His eyes fluttered closed, and
slowly he touched his lips to Clark's. The touch was so soft, and Clark hadn't
expected soft It was…nice. The pressure on his mouth increased by achingly slow
degrees, until Clark's lips opened, and Whitney's tongue touched the tip of
his—a brief but overwhelming caress, it sent a bolt of electricity through him
and was gone too soon. Clark felt like he was tipping into Whitney, he was
burning, and every bit of him felt more alive than ever before.
Whit stood and said, "You're so beautiful, and I have to go. Right now. This
minute. Because I don't trust me."
Clark nodded, his cheeks flaming but not completely from embarrassment. Not by
far. He stared at the bulge tenting the fabric of Whit's jeans, his fingers
twitched.
Whit backed away quickly; his voice was hoarse when he spoke again. "I'll call
you tomorrow. And think about taking Lana to that thing for me, okay?
And…you're beautiful," he said and almost ran down the stairs.
After Whit dashed away, Clark carefully wiped away the makeup and shoved the
brushes and shadow and lipstick far back in the desk drawer, behind model paint
and notebooks. He wondered if Whit could ever understand why he did this, what
this meant to him. Clark shook his head. Probably not—he wasn't sure himself
sometimes why he needed it. What was important was that Whit was okay with it.
With him. Clark smiled and thought about the kiss.
This kiss tonight, he decided, was his first kiss, the one that he'd remember
as his first forever. None of the others counted, because this one—had been
incredible.
Clark leaned on the edge of the loft window sill and stared out over the field,
turning over the events of the evening …it pleased him, and it bothered him,
that Whit had called him beautiful….
                                  [img-thing]
Clark was committed to escorting Lana almost against his will—they were both
trapped in an uncomfortable situation trying to please Whitney. It sucked and
she wasn't doing much to hide her pique though he was trying to treat her way
he was sure Whit would want. It should be enough that he was sacrificing his
whole night for Whit and for Lana. But no, the phone conversation he'd had with
her had been as much fun as dipping his face in boiling oil. He didn't want to
hear her complain that Whit wasn't there on her special night. He didn't want
to listen to thinly veiled insults…he was more concerned about the suit he had
to wear, and getting the stupid tie right, and hoping the slick soles of the
new shoes weren't going to kill him and why couldn't you wear sneakers with a
suit? Stupid. He jerked at the tie. How could Lana hint that he was a liar in
the same sentence she pat him verbally for being a good friend to her
boyfriend? He scowled in the mirror, and bared his teeth. If her boyfriend was
here right now, he'd show her what a friend he was—
Buddy sat on the bed and watched him with great interest, and Clark frowned. "I
know, I look awful, don't I? Look at the sleeves on this thing—didn't I just
get this suit?" He tugged at the jacket sleeves, trying to cover his wrists.
"Guess I grew some," he muttered, and looked at himself in the mirror. The
oddest feeling swept over him—for a moment he looked completely
different—taller, broader, older. Weird. He winced when the familiar spear of
pain snapped his eyes shut. He took a few deep breaths and waited it out. It
wasn't as fiercely bad as when he was a little kid, but still, the pain could
sometimes take his breath away. His eyes burned too, and he rubbed them. For
one crazy moment, he'd even felt a strange little prick of excitement about
taking Lana to this thing, geez. He wished desperately that he was taking
Lana's boyfriend, instead. Now that would make him happy. And then, after the
dance, he could have made Whit happy. He gasped a little at the instant stab of
lust deep down in his gut, and blushed when he caught his expression in the
mirror.
Buddy scrambled to the edge of the bed, and jumped against his leg, whining.
"I'm okay, I'm okay, just a little achy, is all. God, Whit and I have to talk.
There's no way I can live like this, Bud, no way." He sighed, knelt and rubbed
Buddy's ears, scratched his head until Buddy's eyes were almost closed, and he
was obviously in doggie heaven, crooning little dog songs. Clark laughed, and
grabbed his face. "Buddy! I love you, Bud! You're still the best, right? Who's
a good dog, who's a good dog?" Clark sang.
"God, you and that furball are so disgusting," Chloe said, walked in Clark's
room uninvited and sat on the floor. Buddy immediately abandoned Clark and ran
over to jump in Chloe's lap. She scratched his tummy and Buddy sighed happily.
Clark fixed him with a look he blithely ignored. "Traitor," he muttered.
"What? Oh," she said. "The mutt. Clark...the Weirdness is escalating again.
Have you seen Jody lately? You know, big Jody?" Clark winced. "Or should I say
formerly big Jody? A few days ago, she was getting harassed—because of her
weight—"
"I saw Duncan teasing her, the jerk."
Chloe nodded. "Yeah, that Duncan idiot talked to her like—like—grrr! Anyway,
Pete stood up for her. Told that asshole off but good." She scratched under
Buddy's chin and looked thoughtful for a moment. "I think that Pete realized he
was kind of lucky…"
"Not to be fat?"
"Idiot." She rolled her eyes. "Not to be the target. He could easily be, in
this town."
"Pete?" Clark asked, "Why would anyone target—" Chloe looked at him like he was
stupid and Clark flushed. "Oh, right, right—his color."
Chloe stared at him. "Clark, it's kind of heartwarming that you are so
completely color blind. Or possibly, so totally without a clue." Clark opened
his mouth to speak, but Chloe continued. "Stop interrupting. Jody—have you seen
her lately? Overnight, she must have lost—lots! Maybe that disgusting stuff
she's been drinking works." Her nose wrinkled a bit as she mused, "It reminds
me of something…something I've seen before…hmm…anyway, Farm Boy, what time
tonight?"
"Hunh? Time—oh! Damn, Chloe, I'm sorry, I have to go with Lana tonight instead.
I meant to tell you—I forgot."
"Clark! How could you forget? And what the hell—Lana!—why?" She looked
suspicious, angry…and hurt. "Don't tell me you still have some kind of crush on
her?"
"God no, I never— Whit asked me to take her. Sort of stand in for him…"
"For Whitney? Jesus, Clark, that's nearly as bad—fine, screw you—I'll find
someone—or not, I don't give a shit." She jumped up and stomped away, leaving
Buddy in a confused heap on the floor and Clark under a mountain of guilt.
                                  [img-thing]
Clark decided he should get Lana flowers or something—anything to try and make
what was sure to be a tense evening a little bit better. He picked out a small
bouquet of teddy bear sunflowers and orange cosmos and was just leaving the
florist when he ran into Pete.
"Hey Clark. What's up?" Pete stopped, looked at the flowers in Clark's hand. "I
heard you were taking Lana to her party instead of Whit taking her?" He looked
a little confused, smiled hesitantly. "I thought…"
"Oh no, not instead of. For Whit. Whit's got an opportunity to try out at
Kansas State."
"Oh right. That's great. So, you guys are pretty good friends, hunh?" Pete
looked slightly more uncomfortable now, and grinned weakly at Clark.
"Yeah," Clark said suspiciously. "We are…why?"
Pete swallowed and grinned wider—from nerves, Clark knew. He was definitely
uncomfortable and Clark couldn't understand why Pete was pushing it. What did
he want?
"Does he know that you…you like. Him?" Pete asked.
So that was it, Clark thought. Fine. Pete wanted to know, he'd let him know.
Clark looked down at Pete with an icy glare, "Yes. He does—and he's fine with
it. It doesn't bother him at all." Clark figured he owed Pete a jab or two….
Pete stared at his feet. "Yeah. Some people are smarter than others. Clark…I'm
sorry. I know you don't care anymore, and it's been too long, but I'm sorry I
was so…ignorant. You're you, no matter what. And I know that ‘you' is a pretty
good person to be." He looked up at Clark with a real smile on his face.
Clark looked at Pete in surprise. "Well…okay Pete, thanks. It's…I want to say
that's nice of you, but it's kind of sticking in my throat."
Pete sighed, shrugged and started to say something and then—laughed a little.
"Yeah, well, happy endings only happen in the movies. I'll guess I'll see ya
‘round Clark."
"Pete—maybe I'll see you tonight. Okay?"
"Yeah, Clark," he smiled. He turned to walk away and Clark called out to him.
"Pete…sometimes there's such a thing as happy beginnings…" He felt stupid,
until he saw the huge smile that lit Pete's face and his eyes. Clark guessed it
was the right thing to say after all. He watched Pete walk away and wondered
what brought the change of heart on. Deep inside, he was glad for it. It felt
pretty good to let that piece of sadness go.
                                  [img-thing]
"Thank you so much for being my escort this evening, Clark. It's nice of Nell
to do this…even though this isn't quite the way I'd hoped to spend my
birthday."
Clark frowned and tried to lead Lana on the dance floor. "Whit asked me, and
he's my friend so I was glad to help." They moved about the floor, and Clark
peered nervously around the ballroom, white linens, white rose centerpieces at
each table, tons of white streamers and white balloons drooping from the
ceiling, and festooning the walls transformed the ballroom into a spun-sugar
nightmare version of hell. "So, this is kind of over the top even for you,
hunh?"
Lana looked at him strangely for a moment before looking off into the distance
again. "It just reminds me of what I don't have…I'm always a little sad at
every birthday, ever since the last birthday I was able to have with my
parents…" she smiled bravely, bit her lip delicately, and Clark sighed
inwardly, and prepared himself.
"We spent the night at a drive in, and Dad pulled the car up to the screen
until it filled the whole windshield, just to make me laugh. I felt so grown-
up, sitting between my parents on the front seat…I remember getting cold, Mom
took off her sweater and wrapped me up in it, and I fell asleep between them.
It was perfect and I was happy, I felt so safe…I didn't know that I wouldn't be
happy again like that for a very long time."
Clark made a non-committal sound and tried to look engaged. They took another
turn around the floor, and Lana murmured her surprise at his ability to dance,
and his knowledge of ballroom dancing.
Clark smiled. "Yeah, my mom likes to dance and I was always her partner when I
was a kid. We watched old musicals together…" he blushed when Lana cocked an
eyebrow at him and smirked. Gosh, he hated doing this—he felt like the world's
biggest liar. Here he was dancing with Lana and pretty much wishing like crazy
she was her boyfriend instead. He felt guilty, and bad for Lana. The whole
situation really sucked and he hoped it was dark enough to hide his burning
face.
They danced on a bit in silence, moving through the constellations the mirrored
ball threw on the floors and walls, past smiling couples and he wished he were
anywhere but in the ballroom, wished they'd switch the music to something that
didn't require him to hold her. Clark looked everywhere but into Lana's face—he
could feel her eyes on him constantly. She moved a little closer, and it took
willpower not to move away. Lana was speaking, that dry tone in her voice, the
one she used when she was about to chastise without seeming to chastise—God, he
hated that—
"Whitney tends to be very trusting when he thinks someone is worthy of it." She
glanced down at Clark's hand on her waist, and he moved it, hated that he
blushed. "I don't think he could imagine that a friend would lie to him, or try
to take advantage of his good nature," she murmured. "He doesn't understand
secrets, not like you do, Clark. I think you have one, don't you…?"
Clark was stunned speechless, was it possible…did Lana think he liked her? Or
did she mean something else?
Lana smiled at him, the smile wrinkling her nose, and narrowing her eyes in a
way he found disconcerting. Thankfully, she seemed ready to leave the dance
floor. She took his hand, walked to the edge of the parquet floor, and giggled
as a thought struck her. "Can you believe that Pete is taking that huge Jody to
my party? I mean, sure, she's not huge now, but…"
"She's not?"
"Clark, don't you pay attention to things around you? She's stick thin now.
Doesn't matter, she's no different than when she was fat." She sniffed. "Though
I suppose it's all right for Pete to go out with her, considering he's not—"
Clark pulled his hand free of hers and fought the urge to wipe it on his pants.
"Oh gosh, Lana, ‘xcuse me I really have to get some punch right now."
Luck for once was on his side, Whit's friend Fred came up behind Lana, smiling
at Clark, and before he could speak, Clark handed Whit's girlfriend off. Fred
stood there with her hand in his, looking confused, Lana looked irritated, and
Clark walked away as fast as was polite, and wondered what in the hell was
wrong with Whitney.
The punch bowl looked suspect—there were things floating in it. It took him a
moment to realize that the ‘things' were fruit frozen into ice. Clark frowned
down at the pink liquid and thought the fruit still looked vaguely
threatening…he heard his name being called and turned around to catch sight of
Chloe, bearing down on him. He hoped to god she wasn't planning on scolding him
in front of everyone.
"Chloe, I'm really, really sor—"he began and she waved him off.
"Never mind, Tactless Jerk Boy, I'm over that—I've got something I want to show
you. Can we go outside for a minute?"
"Sure, of course," Clark said, and carefully didn't compound his crime by
looking for Lana.
                                  [img-thing]
They were sitting outside in Chloe's little car, and Clark felt that should
count as penance itself, when she gave him a handful of pages. "Look—I don't
understand why everyone else wasn't as shocked as I was at Jody's appearance, I
mean, no one gets that thin that quick, but hey, we're talking about
Smallville, three impossible things before breakfast…"
"Hunh?"
"Never mind, Clark. But look here—I managed to get into the animal clinic, and
take a look at the deer they'd pulled off the road two days ago—"
"Ew. Why? And how?"
"They said the deer died of ‘unknown causes'. In this town, that's just a big
blinking sign saying, hey—weird shit going on here. And…I'm pretty skilled at
getting what I want when I want it, Clark. I don't want to say femme-fatal
but." She stopped and simpered and Clark yelped.
"Chloe! Stuff like that will get you in trouble and damn it, you're not
invincible, no matter what you think," he added in a growl.
"Oh please. Now here's the thing—"She pointed out a sheet of paper with the
Smallville Body And Fender logo printed across the top. "Replaced windshield,
side panels, cause of accident—impact with deer. Guess who's car this was?"
Before Clark could speak she answered herself. "Jody's. And the deer that died
of unknown causes? All the fat had been sucked out of it. It was dried out like
an enormous stick of jerky—and speaking of jerky, Dustin—"
"God, Chloe," Clark winced—she could be a touch callous sometime, when a story
got her going. Everyone knew about Dustin, suddenly stricken with something
that made him horrible, left him in a coma…
"Okay, sorry," she said in a tone of voice that was anything but. "What I was
going to say was Dustin's condition was the same as the deer, only he was
luckier…sort of…"
"How do you know?"
"Did I mention I have a friend at Smallville Medical?"
"You need a full time keeper."
She smirked, "Are you volunteering?"
"I'm afraid you'll get me killed."
She smiled. "Anyway, I want to tell Pete to avoid Jody. I think it's obvious
something's up, in fact, I think Jody has definitely become W.O.W. material…"
"Chloe…Pete's not here."
"What do you mean? I talked to him before he left to pick her up—shit, Clark!"
"I'm sure everything's okay…let's not panic," he said, knowing that worry
colored his voice.
"Clark, Pete's probably still at Jody's. We have to get out there, now! If Pete
is in trouble..."
Clark thought about his promise to Whit, and how angry Lana would be if he
ditched her… "Let's go," he said and grabbed the dashboard as the car lurched
into drive. "And please don't kill us on the way."
                                  [img-thing]
Along the way, Chloe explained what she believed was happening to Jody-—that
her house was built on a major meteor strike, that the green shakes she'd been
drinking came from the vegetables grown in the more than likely contaminated
soil there.
She pulled into the driveway, past the glass building signed Melville Nursery.
"Clark, those meteorites change people, things…I've been keeping track of the
weirdness and the meteorites seem to always appear somewhere, somehow. I think
drinking that stuff screwed up her metabolism —she's losing weight too fast,
too fast to keep up with regular food."
"And that's why she needs body fat…"
They leaped from the car, and Clark ran up the driveway to Jody's house.
The only car besides Chloe's on the drive was Pete's, no one was moving about.
His heart pounded in his chest, what could he do if Pete needed him? Chloe
yelled at him to check the front as she ran to the back yard, and Clark hurried
to the porch, knocked hard on the door. He eased his way in as the door swung
open…towards the rear of the house he heard moaning…
"Pete? Jody?" He ran towards the sound and found Pete lying on the floor,
barely conscious; Clark could hear Chloe yell in the back yard. He leaped over
Pete and ran to the door, just in time to see Jody run to the greenhouse. Chloe
looked dazed, but she waved him off, "I'm fine, I'm fine—go after her, Clark!"
"Stay with Pete," he yelled at Chloe, as he dashed after Jody.
He ran all out, and nearly fell against the greenhouse doors, gasping in pain.
His chest was on fire, and the headaches he'd had all his childhood must have
been dress rehearsals for this one…he jerked to the side, and a shovel slammed
through the glass.
"Shit!" Clark threw himself on the grounded, rolled away from the flailing
shovel; Jody was crying and swinging, trying to hit him. All over, on the
ground, in the seed trays, on the work benches, were scattered with weakly
glowing rocks.
"Why you can't leave me alone?" the girl was screaming.
Clark tried to drag himself upright, said, "You're sick, we just want to help
you—"
"Help me? Why?" She screamed at him. "I'm fine—I'm beautiful—isn't this what
I'm supposed to look like?"
She swung again, and Clark staggered against the glass wall of the
greenhouse—Jody raised the shovel over her head, and all Clark could do was
hold out one hand, the other clutched against his chest as he struggled to
breathe.…
Jody stopped, her mouth an open ‘O' of horror—she dropped the shovel and
moaned, touched her reflection in the glass. "Look at me, I'm a freak…I have to
stop this…for good…" she panted.
Clark tried to reach out for her, "Jody, let us help you, please."
She pushed his hand off and ran into the greenhouse, Clark turned to see her
smashing the shovel through one of the gas lines that fed the greenhouse
heaters.
"No!"
Clark watched her swing at the big halogen lamps hanging over the seedling
trays…
"No—" The world was bright—and then it was dark….
I'm lying in a field, wheat all around me and everything's green and swaying,
slow, like lying in deep water, and the ground's soft and cool, like soil's
just been turned. I can hear wind blowing through the fields, and the seed
heads rubbing together, I think the ocean must sound like this…I see clouds
high, high above me, and I want to be in the clouds so bad, feel them on my
face. And in the back of my mind, I know I can do it. Any time I want to, I can
reach the sky, if I want to I can fly and it makes me feel so…happy, so happy,
tears fill my eyes. It feels magical, the knowledge. A face appears over me. I
think it's someone floating above me at first, but it's a man bending over me.
I'm not scared though, I know this man, I think I love him.
Wake up, angel, wake up. He pulls me up out of the wheat, touches my face, my
mouth, and I kiss his smooth sweet fingertips. He sighs, says, The best thing
that ever happened to me. And I want to beg him, take me, touch me, fill me…
Angel, he says again, Clark, he whispers and his eyes close, he's closer…
"Clark!"
Clark jerked awake with a shout. He hurt all over, like someone beat the hell
out of him in his sleep. Why the hell was Pete in his bedroom? And why was he
yelling at him…Clark came aware all at once, and found he was being pulled
along by Pete, and Chloe, who looked terror stricken and was crying so hard she
could barely speak. "Clark—Clark, a-are you okay, are you all r-right?"
"m'fine," he mumbled, "Fine," but he suddenly became aware of heat on the back
of his head, his neck, something hot and sticky soaking his shirt, wondered
groggily what he'd spilled…and realized it was blood. "Damn!" He staggered,
nearly tripping up his friends; they struggled to keep him upright, and stopped
to let Clark get his balance. Clark slowly became aware of the harsh smell of
smoke, and the crackle of fire. Behind him, the greenhouse burned… "Jody!"
"She's gone, Clark," Pete said, "She didn't get out…she's dead, and we thought
you were dead, too." He sniffed, and dragged an arm across his face, fought to
get his emotions under control.
Chloe nodded, her teeth chattering in reaction to it all. "Y-you're kind of
bloody, something hit you in the head damn hard, I guess. You were knocked
out," she took a gasping breath, "covered with blood." She shivered.
Pete said, "They say even minor head wounds can bleed really hard…"
Clark felt the back of his head, there was a small cut a little above his ear.
His hair was full of tacky blood and grit—probably soil and glass from the
green house, he thought, and carefully wiped his hands on his jeans. Some of
the grit sparked green, quickly faded and fell away.
He had a hard time convincing Chloe and Pete that he was fine, and in fact,
felt better than he had in a long time. He waited with them for the police to
arrive, staring at the burning greenhouse, and feeling the most horrible sense
of guilt, and sorrow. He couldn't shake the feeling that it shouldn't have
happened like that…that it was all wrong and he was somehow to blame.
***** Chapter 7 *****
 [img-thing]
"What the fuck happened, Clark? Why did you leave the party?" Whit was already
asking as he jumped out of the truck and ran for the porch. Anger made his eyes
a crystal blue, something Clark tried to ignore. Whit gripped the porch rail
and glared at Clark. when he wanted to move closer, Clark stopped him, stood
blocking the top stair of the porch, glaring right back at Whit. The asshole.
Here he was, injured, and Whit was angry because he'd left his princess behind
to try and help someone.
"Well, I'm so sorry I left your girlfriend alone—I was kind of busy trying to
help a friend." Clark stomped back across the porch, grabbed the front
doorknob. He yanked the door open, ready to slam it shut on the obnoxious jerk,
when Whit grabbed his arm.
"Clark, I know what happened out at the nursery—you could have been hurt bad,
the way Chloe described it. You were just so fucking lucky; if Pete hadn't
pulled you away from the fire…" he grabbed Clark's hand. "You could have been
killed. And what would have happened to me then—how could I have lived?"
Clark was stunned— Whit's eyes were red, and his lashes were wet. He wiped his
eyes hard and fast, and started to yell at Clark some more. "Next time someone
loses their mind, call the cops—you're not made of steel, damn it!" He pulled
Clark into a hard hug, squeezing the air from him and then stepped back, his
hands cradling Clark's face. "Understand me?"
"Yes, yeah, okay," Clark grinned. "Me too."
Whit eyes widened. He inhaled deeply and then, smiled. "Yeah." He slowly let
his hands drop from Clark's face, fall to his shoulders and squeeze lightly.
"Yeah."
Whit left with promises to come back later when he was free—this was his day to
help out at the store. Clark watched the truck bump down the drive, and turned
back to the house. His mom was looking out the screen door, her hand frozen in
the act of pushing against the screen. Her mouth was slightly open, her
eyebrows high…she whirled around and was gone. ‘Oh shit,' Clark thought. He
flung the door open, headed to the kitchen. If he knew his mother, she'd be
getting ready to make something…a cake, cookies…
She had the flour out and was filling a measuring cup when he rounded the
doorway.
"Mom…"
"Clark, what should I make, butterscotch oatmeal or chocolate chip cookies?"
She asked brightly, and busily checked the pantry cabinet for the chocolate
chips.
"Mom…what you saw just now, I can explain."
"Really?" she said, and the relief was painfully clear on her face. "I didn't
want to seem like I was eavesdropping, I just happened to be walking by and I
heard Whit—he sounded upset." She wiped her hands on the towel tucked at her
waist, and waited expectantly.
"Ah, well…what it looked like, what it looked like…" he inhaled and pushed on,
"Right. What it looked like is that we like each other. I mean we do. A lot. I
like Whit."
His mom was nodding, still smiling, and slowly, tears filled her eyes.
He felt his own fill. "I'm sorry, but that's the way it is for me. I mean I'm
gay, Mom."
"Oh, Clark, how can you know? You're so young—maybe it's just a phase, lots of
kids experiment—it's natural to be confused at this age—" there was an edge of
fear in her voice, in her eyes….
Clark was afraid of what she might ask next, and rushed to interrupt her. "Mom.
I'm not confused." Much, he thought. "This is me. It's what I feel. I've felt
this way—forever."
"But Chloe—" his mom started.
"—has always been just a friend. I'm sorry. I mean, not sorry, but…I hope you
aren't disappointed." But he meant much more than that. I hope you aren't
scared of me, I hope you don't hate me, I hope I'm still your son…
"Clark…I'm not disappointed," she said, and wiped the tears that fell away.
"You could never disappoint me. You're my son, the best son anyone could ask
for." She opened her arms and he walked forward, slowly, hesitantly, and she
grabbed him into a fierce hug. "I'm not upset about that," she said, "I'm
scared for you. This is a cruel world to whoever's outside the boxes society
creates for us."
Clark was surprised. That sounded…a little rehearsed. He had a feeling… "You
knew, didn't you?" he stepped back and stared at her. "You knew already?"
She sighed and let Clark go. "I was beginning to think…maybe. The way you look,
when Whitney comes to visit. It made me think. Well. I like Whit." She smiled,
and wiped another wayward tear.
"God, Mom, I was so scared, you have no idea."
"Actually, I have some slight idea," she grinned wryly. "Taking your father to
meet my father…let's just say, that was every bit as awful as I was afraid to
would be.
"It was, wasn't it? I behaved pretty badly, too"
Clark felt the blood drain from his face—Dad—oh God, he was standing right
behind him in the doorway, just like some goofy movie…he had to have heard…
"Son, after that meeting with your grandfather—a meeting that I still see in my
dreams," he said and cast a wry look at his wife, "I swore I'd never treat my
kids the way we were treated. I swore I'd never make a child of mine choose
between who they loved or their parents. I meant that with all my heart then,
and I mean it still."
Clark gaped at these complete strangers, his parents. These people were not to
be believed. He felt like he was in the middle of a miracle. He shook all over,
and horribly, embarrassingly, began to cry.
Nobody on the planet was luckier than he was—he was gifted, blessed, his life
couldn't get better than this.
                                  [img-thing]
When Whitney called Clark, eventually the conversation turned to his
girlfriend, and in a fog of generous feeling still left from the morning, Clark
told Whitney all about his conversation with Lana, her dreams for a perfect
birthday. "So, if you want to do something nice for her, it would make her
happy. My dad's got an old projector, and some 8mm film reels—never mind what
that means, I'll explain later. Okay. Good-bye."
He hung up the phone, scrubbed his hands through his hair—thought hard. The
generous mood he'd been in evaporated. This…this that he had with Whit just
sucked. It sucked worse than—anything. It was masochistic and stupid, and so
far as he could see, Lana was getting the best of this. Besides, he was tired
of going behind her back. He hadn't told Whitney yet, but it made him feel
terrible. The whole thing, it was just. Wrong.
Clark took a deep breath to steady himself. Went to ask his dad if Whit could
borrow some of the old films and the old projector.
 
That night, while Whitney took his girlfriend on her ‘dream date', Clark sat on
the couch and watched endless gossip TV with Chloe, and ate himself nearly sick
on popcorn. They laughed and made fun of the stars and their idiocies exposed,
but he was well aware that she kept glancing at him. He was about to ask her to
lighten up when he was caught by the latest segment playing on the screen.
"Hey," Chloe said, "it's Lex Luthor. Remember?"
"Of course, I remember—I saved his life, after all."
"Oh please, Clark. Standing on the side of the road jumping up and down and
screaming ‘stop' isn't exactly worth bragging about. He probably stopped
because he was scared of the lunatic on the road."
"Shut up," Clark laughed. "He thanked me, you know. He said I saved him." Clark
frowned. "It felt right, and wrong at the same time. Chloe was right. there
should have been more. He remembered the vivid dream he'd had the night after
and blushed hard. He shifted the bowl to cover his lap. On screen, Luthor was
laughing, talking to some guy, some celebrity or another, and Clark was
fascinated by his mouth, the way it moved. The sharp smile seemed to slice
right into him.
"Hello—earth to Clark. You know, he's in the latest issue of Fortune. I'm sure
lots of people buy it for the centerfold…"
Clark gaped at her, wondering how much the magazine cost and where he could buy
it. "Really? They have a centerfold?" He pictured Lex Luthor spread out on a
big…glass
desk, yeah…
"Oh my God, Clark! Do you hear yourself? You're a mess! Give up the impossible
dream, my friend…um." She looked guilty and shoved a handful of popcorn in her
mouth.
Clark sighed. It didn't take W.O.W abilities to know who Chloe was thinking of.
"Chloe. He loves me. I know it. It's just that…what else can we do?"
"Clark, I told you from the beginning, Whit's never going to acknowledge you.
How can you be happy like this? Doesn't it bother you—?"
 
"Chloe! Yes, okay? It bothers me!" Clark jumped off the couch and stomped
outside. He was halfway down the driveway before she caught up with him,
panting and pink, to hang off his shoulder dramatically.
"Holy shit, Clark," she gasped, "you're fast! When did you get so fast?"
Clark looked around. He was at the end of the drive; he didn't realize he'd
moved so far. He pulled his arm away and moved so he stood with his back to
her. "You're just making me feel bad. What do you want me to do? Out him and
screw everything up for him? He'd got a career to think of, just like you said.
He's been accepted by Kansas State, and I'm not going to be the one to fuck it
up for him."
He heard Chloe whisper, "Clark…" and turned to her.
"I know everything you're telling me, Chloe, I hear you, but I can't help it. I
love him, and he loves me. Lana only has a little part of him, but I have his
heart. I know I do," he said, his voice full of everything he was feeling.
Chloe looked at him, her lip caught in her teeth. Her eyes were wide and so
sad. "Clark. You're being a fool. This thing—it's going to kill you. But I know
nothing I say will mean anything to you so…I'm here when you need me. Even
though you're a fucking idiot."
"Thanks," Clark said. "And thanks for calling me an effing idiot; I can't tell
you how that always makes me feel better."
"I know." She grabbed his hand, and swung it a little and asked with a tiny
smile, "Do you want to hear some W.O.W. news?"
"Can I stop you?"
"Jody's dad left town, mysteriously. No one knows where he's gone—and the
greenhouse? Level and clean as a whistle, all those rocks gone. Oh, yeah, and
the house burned. They're saying embers from the greenhouse fire caught the
house alight. Hunh. A day later?"
Clark shrugged. "I'm sure it's possible." He really didn't want to think about
it, he kept seeing Jody, her thin, drawn, face wet with tears, her mouth
twisted with self-loathing…she'd hated herself so much for not being like
everyone else…Clark shuddered violently. "Can we please talk about anything
else but that—and Whit?"
"Clark," she said, with her hands on her hips, "one day, you're going to wish
you'd paid more attention to me, mark my words."
"Chloe. Shut up?"
                                  [img-thing]
"I told my parents about me." Clark figured he should probably have waited
until they were off the steps—Whitney stumbled to the bottom of the stairs
leading out of the school, and whirled around to stare open-mouthed at Clark.
"You—fuck! Why?" Whit choked. Clark walked past him, trying to think of
something to say that would wipe the panicked look from Whit's face. The bell
was still jangling as kids raced away from the building, and Whit grabbed his
arm and pulled him through the press of people.
"Shit…don't stop—" Whit hissed as Clark tried to slow Whit's head-long plunge
through the crowds. They jogged to the back of the building, the side that
faced the ball field and tennis courts, wended their way through the last of
the crowds milling around the school grounds, and made their way down to the
track. They walked along in silence on the unused track, and when Clark decided
that Whit had calmed down enough to listen, told him what he'd told his
parents.
"All right—what did you say about me?" Whit asked, when Clark wound down into
silence.
"That maybe you like me. That's about it." Silence fell again, no sound except
the crunch of the cinders underfoot, the sound of cars leaving the school; and
diesel engines laboring up the driveway. They walked on and slowly, as they
rounded the track, walked closer and closer until their shoulders bumped.
Whit inhaled deeply, and let it out in a long huff of breath. "Okay. Okay.
Damn, Kent—do you think you can keep this to yourself a little better? I mean,
Pete, Chloe, they know…and now your mom and dad. Shit."
"Well, fuck Whit, it's not like I planned on posting our business on the church
announcement board or anything." Clark shouldered his backpack, turned on his
heel and stalked off.
"Clark," Whit yelled, "wait!"
He caught up to Clark and grabbed his arm again. For a moment, Clark resisted,
and then sagged. Whit let go, his hands wavered about, as if unsure of where to
be, and he settled on wrapping them around himself. "It's not just about
wanting to be secret. It's…it's like a private thing, too. Like I'm the only
one who really knows you, and I don't want to give that up. You belong to me
and I like it." He stopped and sighed. "I'm sorry. I feel like I'm always
saying the wrong thing. Can I come over tonight? We can talk more about this—we
need to, I know."
Clark lifted his head, and felt like his heart was breaking. What Whit said
meant so much to him, but looking into Whit's eyes, Clark knew what they had
was never going to be what he hoped… "Yeah. Sure. I'll ask my folks if it's
okay. And don't worry, they won't say anything…if you want, I can tell them I
was mistaken about you. I can do that."
"Don't do anything until I come over tonight."
                                  [img-thing]
After dinner, Clark excused himself to wait on the porch for Whit, tried not to
think too much about what he planned to say. He could hear the rough sound of
Whit's truck in the distance, and not too long after he was rolling into the
driveway.
He got out of the truck, with a bouquet of flowers, and Clark's jaw dropped.
Whit grinned from ear to ear, and laughed. "Oh, no—these aren't for you." He
stopped and patted Clark's cheek with his free hand, then reached up and
ruffled his hair wildly. "Come on, kid, let's go inside."
Clark followed Whit, confused, wondering just what the heck Whitney was up to.
Whit walked into the kitchen, Clark right on his heels. He looked over Whit's
shoulder and saw that Dad was still sitting at the table with the newspaper,
drinking his coffee and idly chatting with his mom. She was putting the dinner
dishes in the sink, and turned to the entranceway with a little frown. "Don't
forget, Clark, it's your turn to wash tonight. Oh! Hello, Whitney."
His dad smiled, and tilted his mug at Whit. "Whitney. Congratulations on the
scholarship. Good work, son."
Whitney swallowed, glanced at Clark and shoved the flowers at his mom. "These
are for you," his voice rising almost to a squeak. Clark snorted quietly.
"Uh, thank you…" Mom glanced at his dad, eyebrows raised.
"May I sit?" Whit asked
They nodded and Whit sat, took a couple of breaths, and Clark dropped his hand
on his arm, "You don't have to," Clark said softly.
Whit shook his head, took a deep breath and said, "Clark and I…Clark and I. I
really care for him." His parent's faces flushed, and for a moment silence
filled the kitchen uncomfortably. "And, I wanted you to hear it from me."
"Ohh—kay," his dad said "And…"
"And, I'm not out…nobody knows. Nobody can know. But it's not because I'm
ashamed of Clark. It's just." He looked at Dad. "You understand how it is,
don't you? Plus, my folks…they don't know. But… Soon. Maybe."
Clark gaped at Whit, and slowly, a grin stole over his face. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. I—I'm hoping for the best, Clark. Mr. And Mrs. Kent, I don't think my
folks will react the same as you. My dad…" he sighed. "He would never accept it
like this, you know?"
Clark's dad nodded. "Yeah, I can't see George taking that lightly. But this is
our house, and my rules, so…" he stood, and stretched. "Well, four o'clock
comes early, so I'm off. Clark, don't stay up too late—five comes pretty early
too, right?"
His mom kissed Clark on the forehead and pattted Whit's shoulder as they left
the kitchen. "Don't leave the TV on all night again Clark." And they went off
to bed.
Whitney looked at Clark in shock. "That's it? It's okay?"
"Whitney, I told you, they were fine with it." He grinned at Whit. "Besides,
you're quite a catch, you know." He leaned closer to Whit and kissed the tip of
his nose. "I got quite a catch," he murmured.
Whit's eyes closed, and he inhaled sharply. "Clark, Clark." He opened his eyes
again. "You really have no idea do you? You have no concept of how amazing,
how…incredible you are."
"I'm not; I'm just Clark, that's all."
Whit laughed, "Sure, sure you are."
                                  [img-thing]
His parent's anniversary was a couple of days away, and all during the week,
they'd been discussing plans for the weekend. Clark wasn't sure what those
plans were, but it involved a little too much giggling and snapping butts with
tea towels for his comfort. A couple of times they'd stopped talking a little
too quickly when he came in the room and he so didn't want to be a part of
those conversations. He guessed it was okay that they could still get silly and
it was kind of nice to know that they still loved each other. He grimaced. And
that was all he wanted to know, he thought, watching his parents giggle and
tease each other. They were his parents and he loved them, so he'd just have to
be patient with them.
By that Thursday, they decided that they were going to have a weekend in
Metropolis—see a show, stay in a hotel—pamper themselves a bit and they'd be
back home Sunday night.
Clark grinned. Cool. Freedom, two whole days of freedom…what could he do in two
days? He grinned even wider. Yeah, what could he do?
Friday afternoon, he got the lecture from his mom: no parties, no staying out
past curfew, no unplanned visitors— and the necessary information; what to eat,
where the food was, and telephone numbers, street names, the hotel and its
location and landmarks and….
"Mom! It's not like I'm going to the city, okay? I'll be fine, don't worry."
His dad strolled into the kitchen, shrugging on a sports jacket that Clark had
never seen before. "Wow, Dad, you guys look good."
His dad grinned at him, "Yeah? Your mom looks great, I know that." His mom
smoothed down the front of the soft beige sweater she was wearing, and blushed
a little. Clark thought it was cute. They acted like they were going on their
first date—heck, it practically was. His parents worked non-stop to make sure
he got what he needed, and Clark couldn't remember a single time they splurged
on themselves. Extra money usually went to him—a TV, a CD player…that leather
jacket he'd wanted so bad one year…he could see how happy they were at this
moment and he felt guilty that they had to spend so much on him. If he wasn't
in the picture….
They grinned at each other so long that Clark knew they'd forgotten all about
him. He coughed. "Um, I got you a card. For your anniversary. I hope you have a
good time." Oh, geez, I did not just say that. He kept on smiling.
"Hey, thanks, Son." His dad pulled Clark into a hug, and his mom squeezed him
tight. They grabbed suitcases, his dad complaining that no one needed two
suitcases for three days and the hotel had towels and soap, you know, and his
mom breezed out the door with a laugh. His dad looked over his shoulder and
said, "John's going to be here with the new guys on Saturday, they'll do most
of the work. As long as you take care of the calves, the rest of the day is
yours."
"I appreciate that, Dad. How's Mr. John working out, anyway?" John had been
hired to replace Earl Jenkins, after he quit to work at the fertilizer plant.
"He's not bad. Not as good as Earl, but few are. Earl was a heck of a good
supervisor. If Gabe's not an idiot, he's got Earl doing the same for him."
"Well, I hope Mr. Earl's doing well at the plant. He deserves to."
His dad held the car door for his mom while Clark put the suitcases in the
trunk of their old car, freshly washed for the occasion. They walked around to
the driver's side, his dad started to get in but Clark stopped him and adjusted
his skewed jacket collar for him. "Thanks, son."
Clark nodded, "You have to be sharp for Mom," he grinned.
A few more good-byes later, Clark watched his parents drive off and felt awful
that he didn't feel worse. It was exciting, the idea of being on his own,
alone. Tomorrow, he'd call Whit and ask him to come over, watch some movies or
something. He shivered. And maybe, he was ready for a little more.
                                  [img-thing]
Saturday morning was strange; the radio was silent, the kitchen was cold— he
wasn't used to it being so quiet. He set the coffee pot to brew, and went out
to the calf shed. After feeding Princess and the rest of the calves, he took
advantage of the fact he was free for the day. He showered, sauntered back
downstairs in socks and his boxers and plopped down in front of the TV with a
mixing bowl full of cereal. Buddy jumped up on the couch, since Mom wasn't home
to make him get down, and he threw himself across Clark's lap—in seconds he was
happily snoring and shedding all over the couch. Clark snorted out a milk-
filled laugh when Buddy kicked him in the stomach. "Watch, that tickles," he
laughed, and froze—a loud crash outside the door startled him. The doorknob
jiggled violently, and Clark felt his heart hammer. There was no one on the
farm except for him and some men he didn't really know, some men that might…he
scrambled to the floor, and tried to quiet his breathing, tried to listen. He
thought he heard footsteps on the porch, on the stairs…something banged against
the house, and he heard a loud exclamation but he couldn't make out words. He
was shaking, so scared, freezing now and cursing himself for not getting
dressed, and now Buddy was barking crazily, flinging himself against the door.
Clark couldn't think, he was nearly nauseous with fear—all he could think was
help—get help—
He fumbled the phone off the sofa table, crawled into the kitchen and under the
counter. He punched in a number and sat, breathless waiting for the phone to
ring…
"Hello?"
"Whit, Whit," he gasped into the phone, "Someone's trying to break in the
house—"
"Are you sure, Clark—did you look—"
"Whit, come—come help me—"
The line went dead, and Clark made a noise he knew could only be described as a
scream—he was equal parts deeply terrified and horribly embarrassed but he
couldn't move, couldn't face his fear. He knew, absolutely, without a doubt,
one of those men was coming through the door after him—he knew it. Clark closed
his eyes tight, and curled into a ball, and concentrated on dark, and quiet,
and far away….
There was a banging on the kitchen door, the door vibrated with the force, and
Buddy was howling with rage, flinging himself at the door. Clark called out
again and again for Buddy. He didn't want to be alone under the counter, he was
on the edge of crying, swimming in self-pity.
 
"Clark! Clark!" The door practically shuddered in the frame now, and Clark
realized the voice was Whit's He scrambled out from the counter and threw
himself against the door, and froze. What…what if it wasn't Whit….
"Clark, is that you, can you hear me—unlock the door, Clark," Whit called
coaxingly. "Come on Clark—it's me, promise. It's just me."
Clark managed to make himself open the door, and stood shaking, too embarrassed
to look at Whit. Whit slowly reached out for Clark. "Hey, it's okay—what
happened? Did someone try to bother you? Where are your mom and dad? Clark…"
Clark reached out and yanked Whit inside, hugged him so hard his buttons
scraped and bruised Clark's bare chest. He buried his face in Whit's neck, and
took great gulping breaths, struggling to keep from crying. "Whit."
Whit peeled Clark off, and slowly walked him over to the couch, pressed him
down. "Okay. It's okay. There's nothing wrong outside—one of the guys was
trying to find your dad, was all…everything's all right. Promise."
"I—I thought—I don't know what I thought," Clark mumbled into his chest, and
Whit seemed to understand. He put his arm around Clark and told him again not
to worry. "It's okay, love, it really is."
Whatever Whit said didn't register with Clark because he suddenly realized that
he was nearly naked, and almost in Whit's lap—and pulled away. "Oh. Wow—sorry.
Ah."
"You're fine—but you should probably get dressed. I'll stay here. On the
couch."
Clark grinned, relief making him giddy, and even, kind of bold. Whit was here,
and everything was okay and…he was here. Smiling at him. "Okay."
"By the way, you made me miss my breakfast and it was real food, not Cap'n
Crunch and Fruit Loops and ew—is that Grape Nuts? You're weird."
"Grape-nuts are good," Clark said. He stood, and stretched for the ceiling
rising up on his toes, his stomach flattened and his boxers dropped an inch…
Whit looked away, his cheeks red. "Go. Now."
"Okay…" Clark walked out of the kitchen, slowly, lingered at the door way,
looking over his shoulder…
"Go!"
He laughed and ran up the stairs.
                                  [img-thing]
He came back down, warmer now that he was dressed in a thick but soft flannel
shirt and worn jeans, with a pillow made from an old red jacket under his arm.
Whit wasn't on the couch—he was in the kitchen, making an awful noise. Buddy
was sitting by the door, obviously deciding it was safer not to be in the
kitchen, and watching Whit warily.
Clark and Buddy watched him curse at an egg in the pan, clearly at the limit of
his cooking skills and now depending on verbal encouragement.
"What are you doing?" Clark thought it was a reasonable question, asked in a
reasonable tone of voice, but Whit jumped and cursed, whirled around with the
spatula pointed defensively. "Damn it! Kill me why don't you?" he turned back
to frown at the stove. "Don't ask me why but I'm making breakfast for you."
"What? What the hell for?"
"Because you were eating cereal and I thought maybe…shut the fuck up, you
ungrateful shit."
Clark laughed, "Whit, I don't think there's any farm kid who can't make
scrambled eggs and bacon for themselves. I could have made breakfast for us…"
he looked in the pan. "Um. Those are real good looking…uh…"
"It's scrambled eggs."
"Oh! Sure, I knew that. It looks delicious."
"Kent, you suck at lying." He grabbed the pan and tried to dump it in the
garbage, but Clark stopped him, took it and laid it back on the stove, and
kissed Whit.
"Whitney," he whispered against his cheek. "We don't have to eat breakfast, we
have all this time, my folks are gone for the weekend…" he pressed his lips
against Whit's temple, said, "and I'm cold; I need your help to warm up…" Clark
could give Whit what he wanted, and Whitney would know how serious he was about
them, how important Whit was to him….
Whitney shuddered, and pushed Clark back. "Oh no, no, we're not." He tried to
move away but Clark grabbed his arms.
"Why not? Are you afraid now? Or you're not interested like that anymore?"
Clark stepped back. "Okay, sure. I understand, I get it. Thanks for coming
over—"
Whit slapped Clark's head. "No, that's not it. I just don't want…to take
advantage of you."
"Jesus, you act like I'm eight—you can't take advantage of me if I want it,"
Clark pouted and rubbed his head, felt a tiny spark of surprise that he hadn't
really felt it. What was wrong with Whit—or—was there something wrong with him?
"Oh yes I can certainly take advantage," Whit said. "See, I'm pretty sure I
have more experience than you; I know what I'd be getting into. Not like you.
How many times have you…"
Clark glared at him. "None."
"What? Shit—never, ever?"
"No. Why should it matter?"
"Fuck me." Whit dropped onto the couch, squashing the red pillow beneath him.
"Well, that wasn‘t what I had in mind but I'm flexible. Heh. Flexible—"
"Oh please." Whit's head dropped against the back of the couch.
"Whit—why not, Whit? It's okay, it really is," Clark said, and dropped down
next to him. They leaned against each other, and Whit pushed Clark away, just a
little. Clark pouted and Whit just sighed.
"I've got a good idea, Clark. let's just watch some TV, and we'll think about
it, all right?"
"What are you, a monk?" Clark groused, but let Whit stretch with him across the
couch—with Whit behind him, it was comfortable and…safe. Clark leaned back into
his warmth. "This is nice."
"See? We don't have to rush to…you know."
"Have sex, you huge girl?" Clark asked, and Whit snorted.
"Yeah. That."
"Too bad," Clark murmured. "Us having the house all to ourselves and all." His
hand was cupping his own hip, and his eyes were beginning to lower, Whitney's
warmth and the luxurious feeling of protection making him sleepy. Whit muttered
something behind him and threw his arm over Clark, pulling him closer.
They lay spooned together for a bit, and Clark slipped deeper into sleep, and
his hand dropped from his hip to land between them. He woke a little when he
realized the back of his hand was grazing Whit's crotch…he took a breath, and
turned his hand so his palm rode over the fly. He eased his hand down slowly
until he felt the heat of Whit's dick warm his palm. He stroked the warm
length, pressed his hand tighter over the head until he felt the way it filled
his palm. Clark swallowed— it seemed as loud as a shout. The loose material of
Whit's jeans let Clark almost wrap his fingers around his dick, felt it jerk,
grow, so hot under his hand—Whit groaned, a low throb of sound that made
Clark's dick jerk, too.
"Clark, Clark," Whit breathed. "You shouldn't…" he bucked Clark's thumb rubbed
over his rapidly hardening dick—Clark moaned, rubbed and pressed his hand
against Whit and Whit humped the palm of Clark's hand helplessly.
"Oh God—" Whit grabbed a handful of material over Clark's hip and twisted,
gasped against the back of Clark's neck. "Oh God, oh God, oh…"
Clark shivered with each gust of hot breath against his sensitive skin…he
wanted Whit to touch him too, but he couldn't speak, could barely breathe. His
dick was hard, hard as Whit's.
Whit was panting louder, and pushing harder into Clark's hand, and his dick was
like steel now, throbbing under his palm. "Clark I swear, if you don't stop
right now, I'm gonna come, right now…"
Clark stilled, tensed, and shuddered. "Ah—come, do it—" Clark s eyes rolled
back, he arched like a bow, and he was coming, it felt amazing….
"Clark, fuck, a minute, one more min—" Whit ground against Clark, breathing
harder and harder and—
Buddy erupted into frantic barking and Whit groaned, "Your dog's coming to kill
me," and Clark gasped, laughed.
Buddy barked louder, frantically and Clark could hear him scratching at the
kitchen door.
"Something's definitely out there." He sat up, and Whit groaned in terrible
frustration.
"Gaaawd…all right, you clean up and I'll check." He squeezed out from behind
Clark and walked gingerly out to the kitchen. Clark felt a moment of guilt for
Whit, but figured it was a good idea to clean up first, and ran to the
bathroom.
When he came out, the kitchen door was open, and Whit was outside. Buddy was
dancing about, whining and yipping and leaping at the screen door over and
over. He scratched frantically at it, ready to tear through the screen.
"Buddy! Stop it," Clark snapped, and Whit called from the back yard, "I don't
see anything."
Clark opened the door, and Buddy took off like a shot across the yard and
straight for the barn.
"Crap!" Clark grabbed his boots and shoved them on, "Something must be in the
barn, Whit! Get Buddy!" Whit was with him, and he felt none of the crippling
fear he'd had earlier, all he could think of was his dog, alone with whatever
it was that angered, and seemed also to frighten him. Clark sprinted to the
barn, leaving Whit to scramble after him, cursing as he tried to catch up with
Clark. "Wait damnit, don't go in there without me!"
                                  [img-thing]
They burst into the barn, Whit stopping to grab the first available weapon-like
object. Clark raised his eyebrows and snorted at the pitchfork inWhit's
hand—they ran up the stairs to the loft, led there by Buddy's agitated whining.
"He's not barking anymore, but something's bugging him." Clark found himself
whispering and felt foolish until Whit whispered back.
"He doesn't do stuff like this normally?"
"No," Clark whispered. "He's not a yappy, whiny kind of dog, and the whining is
freaking me out."
Whit nodded. "So's the whispering," he whispered. "Why are we doing it?"
"I don't—" Clark coughed and went on in a normal tone of voice. "I don't know.
Shut up."
They were in the loft now, looking around. As far as Clark could see, the
couch, the book shelves, they all seemed normal…the desk was fine, the models
in place, the new hammock hanging just so. Clark looked to the dark corners,
where stuff was stored—Christmas boxes, old trunks and stuff from his
grandfather…his head began to pound, an echo of the pain from his childhood.
There was a lumpy tarp in the corner that was the object of Buddy's attention…
"Clark—" Whit's hand clamped on his arm "—something's under that tarp."
Clark backed up and bumped into Whit. "Get back, Whit—I've got this."
Whit took one look at his pale face and pushed him back. "Hell, no. I'll look.
Don't argue with me, Clark, you look like shit—it's a headache, right?"
The tarp shook violently and Whit raised the fork, yanked the tarp back. He was
almost startled into stabbing what huddled under it, but Clark grabbed his arm.
"Don't! I know him. Mr. Earl. what are you doing here?"
They looked down at the sweating, shivering form partially covered by the tarp.
Earl gasped out, "Clark? I come to see your dad, he's—he's the only one I can
trust…" and Earl began shivering harder, unable to speak as he shook, his legs
flailing violently and his teeth chattering so loud.
Buddy whined louder, crowded up against Clark's legs as if trying to push him
back. When Earl reached out for Clark, Buddy showed his teeth but made no
noise, not a growl or a snort and that scared Clark. It scared him too, that he
could clearly hear Earl's teeth clatter, hear him swallow, hear a strange off-
beat thumping, whooshing sound. He looked around trying to figure out where it
came from—it was so noisy suddenly—creaking and cracking coming from all over
the loft filled his ears, and Whit was breathing so fucking loud, Buddy started
whining again and it was like a buzz saw ripping through Clark's head and the
pounding thump thump in the background was maddening…the thumps settled into
several distinct beats, one that quickened when he touched Whit and suddenly he
knew, somehow, he was hearing—everything. He bent over with nausea as his
headache took on killing proportions. "Whit, call an ambulance, something is
terribly wrong."
"Clark, are you—"
"No, I'm fine—for Earl." Clark dropped to the ground and shoved himself away
from Earl as Whit ran for the house. Clark felt better with the bit of distance
and Buddy jumped into his lap and snuffled him. Clark scooted backwards until
he fetched up against the couch, and with each bit of distance, the pain eased
even more. "Earl, Earl," he muttered. "What happened to you?"
***** Chapter 8 *****
 [img-thing]
The clinic was freezing—Clark had his arms wrapped around himself, trying to
generate some warmth, Whitney was rubbing his back. Clark knew Whit was trying
to make him feel better but worry for Mr. Earl was gnawing at him. He took the
chance and leaned heavily into Whit for a second. It helped a bit—being near
Whit always helped.
The PA system echoed in the hall as it called out doctors' names and mysterious
codes, nurses bustled back and forth…there were so many people in pain, so many
hurting. It was sort of scary—definitely unnerving—being in the medical center.
The last time he was in a hospital…well, he didn't really remember the last
time he was in a hospital.
Chloe came hurrying up the too bright corridor, carrying two sodas. She handed
one to Clark, who passed it off to Whit, and she spoke as she opened the one in
her hand. "Clark, I don't know, this guy should be in detox…"
Clark waved her off impatiently. "No, Chloe, he's not like that. He's a good
guy."
"You don't know what he could have gotten into since he quit the farm. Didn't
you see, he was shaking like a leaf."
Clark knew Whit could feel his agitation; how tight his muscles were under his
hand. Whit slid his hand to Clark's shoulder and squeezed, murmured, "Hey, he's
going to be okay, thanks to you. They'll take care of him."
Chloe still looked doubtful and peeked through the waiting room doorway at all
the activity taking place down the hall. Clark joined her at the door. "You
know, Earl worked on the farm almost as long as I can remember. I spent a lot
of time working next to him," Clark said. "I talked to him about…stuff. School
and personal stuff. He really is a decent person." Chloe smiled doubtfully, but
Whit nodded, brushed his knuckles against Clark's hand, and Clark felt a little
bit more of the ice inside him melt.
"Well, maybe," Chloe said, "but just because you spend time with someone
doesn't mean you know their deepest, darkest secrets."
"God, Chloe, give it a rest, can't you see Clark's upset enough?" Whit snapped.
He was about to say more, but he was interrupted by the arrival of two
policemen from Smallville's force. The men glanced at Whit and Clark and one of
them lifted an eyebrow, and smirked. Whit tried to unobtrusively put a little
distance between himself and Clark.
"Where can we find Earl Jenkins?" they asked the nurse on duty. She pointed
down the hall. "Can I ask what this is about?" she asked.
The officer who'd smirked at Clark and Whit answered her, speaking into her
chest as he said, "Well, he's wanted for murder in the city—" and he was
interrupted by frantic screaming, from a room further down the hall. Clark
jerked forward, ready to run to the sound, but Whit stopped him.
"Come on, Clark—let it go. There's nothing you can do anymore. It's up to the
doctors."
Clark hesitated, and reluctantly agreed. "Okay."
Whit smiled at him. "I'll take you home. I already let my folks know I'm
staying at your place tonight."
"Oh, good," Clark sighed, and avoided Chloe's eyes.
                                  [img-thing]
They were in the loft, and Clark showed Whit his telescope. Whit peered into
the eyepiece and muttered, "You know Clark, when you offered me a look at your
telescope, I totally thought it was a cute name you call your dick."
"Whit!" Clark laughed, scandalized and enjoying it.
"Yeah, well…" Whit looked up with a crooked grin. "So, want to make up the
bed?" He walked about the loft, turning on Clark's troop of space heaters and
hooking the TV up to an extension cord. While he did that, Clark pulled out the
sleeper, and took sheets and blankets out of the trunk. He snapped a sheet out
over the mattress and smoothed it, tossed one of the heavy trade blankets over
it, and stopped. "Whit?"
"Hmm?"
"What's going to happen tonight? Are we going to act like we're just friends
or…"
Whit huffed and ran his fingers through the mop of hair falling into his eyes.
"Well, I guess that's impossible anymore. I'm not sure where we are now."
"Whit, you asked me before if I'd ever had sex…well, what about you? Do you
have experience with guys?"
Whit nodded and Clark felt a stab of irrational jealousy. He didn't want to be
first, but…he wanted to be first.
"Summer camp. This guy…I don't know. We couldn't keep our hands off each
other."
Clark felt a punch to his chest. "Oh yeah?"
Whit nodded, "We didn't even like each other but man—it was like a-an
addiction. All that summer any chance we got, we were fucking." He looked at
Clark. "But that was it. Just fucking. I've been with that guy, and a few
girls, and I've never ever felt about any of them the way I feel about you. I
want to be with you—need to be with you. It's like, when you talk, I have to
stop and listen, because I love the sound of your voice, you smile and I feel
like I have to smile, too." He looked at his feet and mumbled, "When you hurt,
it makes me feel like I'm dying."
"Whit," Clark breathed, "sounds serious to me."
"Yeah, well…"
Clark sat on the bed, and held out his hand. "I want this, I really want this.
I can't imagine ever wanting it with anyone else."
Whit scoffed, but smiled, his eyes sparkled a brighter blue, and he walked over
to the bed. Clark's heart was beating crazily, and his mouth was dry. He wanted
it, but still, he was a little scared. Whit sat and put his hand on Clark's
knee. "It's okay to be scared. Normal. Remember, anything you don't want, you
stop me, okay? Promise you'll stop me?"
Clark nodded. "Yes." He closed his eyes, and felt the smooth warmth of Whit's
mouth over his. He felt the slide of Whit's hand up his leg, and Whit asked him
again, "Are you sure? ‘Cause I'm not sure, but I really want to."
"I'm sure, I was afraid I'd have to wait forever."
Whit kissed him again, and stood. He unbuttoned his shirt, pulled it off, and
reached out for Clark; together they pulled his t-shirt over his head. Clark
watched Whit unzip his jeans and skin off boxers and jeans in one go. He was
nude, the glow of the one lamp still lit making him golden all over. Clark
inhaled sharply. He'd seen lots of naked guys before, the locker room and
all…but never this way. Whit was perfect and his dick was—Clark blushed all
over—was pretty. He smiled and Whit looked down at him, his answering smile
soft, eyelids drooping, they both watched his hand skimming over his belly. His
fingertips glanced over his dick, and it swayed at his touch. "Clark..." Whit
touched himself a little firmer, and a pearly drop rose and hung from the tip.
"…Clark."
Clark tried to take his own jeans off but his fingers felt thick and clumsy.
His mouth was so dry it was almost painful to swallow, but Whit was there and
helping him, and when Whit finally got Clark's pants off, he pressed his head
into Clark's crotch…Clark shivered. Whit was smelling him, tasting him…his dick
leaped when Whit's fingers grazed his ass. Clark was startled—and incredibly
turned on.
Whit's lips touched him, slid along his length. Clark fought not to press him
down, to beg him to open his mouth, suck him in…Whit stood and turned away and
Clark gasped, "Wait—where are you going?"
Whit laughed, "I'm going to turn off the lights—"
"No! I mean…no, please…can we leave them on, Whit? I need…"
Whit's face crumbled, and he was on the couch, holding Clark's hands, nodding
fiercely. "Of course…Clark…are you absolutely sure? I've never asked anyone if
they were sure so many times, but I have to be certain that…you're certain."
"Whit—I'm not made of glass, I won't break. It's just—nerves. Don't treat me
different because of…today."
"Of course not! I know you're strong. And brave, and I'm—wow, I can't believe
that I feel kind of honored that you want me."
"Idiot," Clark said fondly. He pulled Whit in close to kiss him, and Whit was
ready, hands up to circle his face, eyes drifting closed. The kiss was the
beginning, a launch into incredible pleasure, deep and pure. Clark felt like he
was flying in slow motion, the slick, warm slide of Whit's lips against his,
his tongue lazily sweeping through his mouth made him want more. more touches,
more heat—he nipped at Whit's lip and was rewarded with a growl. Whit pushed
him flat on the sofa bed, kissed and bit his neck, his nipples—"Whit! Oh—uh—"
He trembled under the hot, wet drag of Whit's dick across his belly, and gasped
again when their dicks lined up, catching and rolling against each other.
"Fuck, Clark…" Whit pulled back and touched Clark, felt along the edge of skin
still covering the head of his dick. He pulled it forward, and back, gently
exploring and all the while Clark shuddered and shook, Whit's finger eased over
the wet surface of his sensitive head. He bent, pulled the skin forward again
and licked, sucked at it, thrust his tongue in and out, teasing the slit until
Clark was making a noise close to a howl…he sat up and Clark shouted, desperate
to keep Whit right where he was.
"Oh, don't—don't—"
Whit chuckled and stretched full length on Clark, settled their dicks between
them. "Hold on," he said, "You'll like this."
"What—ah-ah—"
Whit slid against Clark, and he groaned as wave after wave intense feeling
swept him. The cling and drag as they rubbed against each other forced Clark to
push back, harder, and harder, they clung tight to each other, desperately
striving to keep every bit of themselves in contact.
Clark felt it start deep in his gut, a clenching pull of muscle that made
everything tense and tingle, he was losing it, thrusting wilder and wilder—Whit
reached under him and grabbed his ass, fingers sliding into the cleft, pulling
Clark in tight, skating over his hole and that was all it took, his dick
throbbed and swelled and jerked, come shot up between them, spreading between
their grinding bellies, their hips. Whit groaned, a long breathy moan of sound
that wound its way right up Clark's spine and made his dick jerk again, made it
jerk harder and try to spit again when Whit's come erupted against him. Liquid
heat pushed against his balls and he shuddered, collapsed against the bed with
a moan. He felt his chest, his throat, even his chin splattered with Whit's hot
come.
It was incredible.
For a moment, everything outside of him and inside of him was pitch-black and
totally silent, complete and perfect—and then he was back, wrapped around Whit,
trembling and laughing, and Whit was holding him, laughing softly into his
neck. "That was fucking amazing. I think you killed me."
Clark nodded. "It was incredible. You were amazing; you made me feel...wow."
Whit lifted his head, Clark's words penetrating the fog… "Not me, Clark—you're
amazing. You make me feel like a king."
Clark grinned and threw his arms around Whit's neck. "Whitney—I had sex! And
with the person I love the most in the whole world!"
"Clark—Clark. I'd like it if it was just you and me now. No sex with anyone
else from now on—I promise."
Clark sighed, a little of his joy tarnished. "What about Lana? How are you—"
Whit grinned, "She's saving herself for marriage. Ours, I guess." He snorted.
"Yeah. She gives good head, though…" Clark stiffened. Whit's words were kind of
callous and not at all what he'd come to expect of Whit—Whit misunderstood and
hurried to console Clark "—but it's not like she'd noticed if I stopped
asking."
Clark rolled to his side away from Whit, and Whit got up and dug through the
desk drawer. He came back with the wipes and his t-shirt. "Come on, let me
clean you up." Clark stared at the liquid mess all over his and Whit's
chests—while Whit cleaned him, he reached out and ran a finger through the
sticky wet, and licked it.
"Clark—freak!" Whit grinned and asked in a low voice that went straight to
Clark's dick. "How does it taste?"
"I like it," he whispered, staring into Whit's eyes. "It's you and me, I like
everything about us."
Whit shivered. "Lana—Lana doesn't…"
Clark grabbed Whit's thigh and squeezed hard enough to make him wince. "Don't
mention her ever again when we're together, when we're like this. Swear."
Whit nodded and gasped when Clark let go. There were five distinct prints on
his leg. Tomorrow, they'd probably be purple bruises, tender to the touch. Whit
ran his fingers lightly over the marks, and Clark saw heat flare in his eyes.
He bent, kissed Whit's dick. Licked around the head, and lapped long, long, wet
stripes over it, until Whit was hard again. He attacked him, driving the head
deep into his throat, sucking and licking until Whit was thrusting in, both
hands buried in Clark's hair and any thought of slow, and gentle, and careful,
driven out of his head by the wet sound of Clark's mouth and tongue working
him—attacking him, by questing fingers worming back into his sweat slick cleft,
a twist of his hips and Clark's finger entered him, his dick struck the back of
Clark's throat and he was coming, Clark trapped him and swallowed, not allowing
him to pull out, drank him down and moaned as he was doing it.
Whit dropped back against the couch, his hair and face wet with sweat… "Clark,
holy fuck—holy fuck—"
Clark knew Whit got it. There didn't need to be words to understand what Clark
meant. There was nothing Lana could do for him that Clark wouldn't do
better—and love doing it. Whit nodded, too breathless to speak. Clark's fingers
meshed with his, and they both lay on the bed, panting, exhausted, silent.
                                  [img-thing]
Morning came much faster than Clark was ready for—cool yellow light washed the
rough floor boards, the alarm was chirping and Clark knew the floor would be
freezing and prickly against his bare feet…it was a tremendous act of will
power to untangle himself from Whit's warm legs and arms and get up. He smeared
a quick kiss across Whit's sleep soft mouth, forced himself to get dressed and
head out to do his chores.
Clark was finished, showered and breakfast made by the time Whit made it back
to the house. "You left me," he mumbled, scratching his ribs, and peering
about. "It's cold up there without you."
"Had chores." Clark answered, grinning to himself. He felt wonderful. He was
with Whit. Had sex with him. Amazing, incredible sex.
Whit realized Clark was grinning at him, and grinned back. "Wow, I even get
breakfast—cool."
Clark set plates out, and handed Whit a mug. "Don't get used to it."
Whit sighed wistfully. "I wish I could…"
The mood in the kitchen darkened a bit, they were quiet as they ate…but they
held hands and didn't let go.
                                  [img-thing]
They were tangled on the couch, kissing, wonderful kisses, amazing kisses,
kisses that made Clark feel like he was floating…Whit's hand was working its
way into Clark's jeans—they'd already taken Whit's pants off, his boxers were
hanging from one foot, and Whit was laughing in his ear, "Come on, it's not
fair, I lost my pants, you need to take yours off…"
Buddy started barking, and Whit groaned, "Not again."
Clark froze, and scrambled upright. "Fuck, my parents!"
Whit yelped and leaped off the couch, snatched up his jeans and sprinted for
the bathroom. Clark yanked his t-shirt frantically over his head, and by the
time his parents came into the house, he was sitting calmly on the couch,
watching—he had no idea what—on TV.
"Hey, guys, you're early—" He looked down and saw Whit's boxers on the floor
and leaped up, kicked them under the couch in one move.
"Well, yes—we were worried. Where the heck were you last night, Clark—we called
and called—" His dad was definitely annoyed, both his parents were obviously
angry.
"Um, the hospital, actually…"
"That's it," his mom said, "This was the first and the last vacation we
take—we're never leaving home again."
"I can see you're fine," His dad broke in, "so who got hurt?"
"Nobody, not really…we found Earl Jenkins in the loft. He said he was looking
for you Dad. He's really messed up. When we were at the hospital, we overheard
that he's—he's wanted for murder."
"Murder—how is that possible?"
Clark started to speak, but Whit walked in the room. "Oh—oh, hi, Mr. Kent, Mrs.
Kent…did you have a good weekend?"
"Thank you, yes Whitney. And you?"
Clark was a little nervous that his folks were so polite to Whit—and both of
them were staring at him. Hard.
Whit blushed deep red, and stammered, "Uh, my weekend? It was, good, it was—I
had a good—did Clark tell you about Earl?"
"Yes, I think I better go see what happened. Clark, do you want to come with
me?" His dad grabbed the truck keys from the hook by the back door, and
replaced the sports jacket with his barn coat.
Clark nodded, and his dad said, "Good. You might want to put your shirt on
right side out first. And you…unh. Kicked your boxers straight out the other
side of the couch…"
Clark blushed, Whit was still bright red, and now looked like he wanted to die,
but Clark figured if anyone was dying here, he had first dibs…his mom looked at
the boxers peeking out from under the couch and frowned—skewered Clark with a
sharp look. "I didn't buy those."
Right. Painful, prolonged death…had to be better than this….
"Clark, Whit squeaked, "See ya when you get back—bye, Mrandmrskent," Whit
blurted, and dashed out of the kitchen to the driveway. Clark watched him drive
away and promised himself that Whit was going to pay for abandoning him….
                                  [img-thing]
His dad was worried about what the doctor was saying. He nodded as she tried to
describe Earl's condition, to explain what might be going on with him, hampered
by not really being sure herself.
"We think it's possible that he's been poisoned—perhaps by some kind of
mineral, or metal…he insists that his condition is the result of an explosion
of some kind at the plant but—there are no records anywhere that such a thing
happened." The doctor put an x-ray on the light box and pointed to hundreds of
small specks under Earl's skin—almost like shotgun pellets, Clark thought. "The
seizures could be caused by his body trying to push these bits of—mineral or
metal out of his skin." She shook her head. "We don't know for sure…but his
condition is worsening, and…" she hesitated again. "It doesn't look good."
Clark could see how upset his dad was at the news; it hurt to think that
anything bad could happen to Mr. Earl. He didn't deserve anything so terrible
happening to him.
The doctor was telling his father to visit Mr. Earl quickly—he was going to be
transferred to a secure room at Metropolis City Hospital.
                                  [img-thing]
"Earl…" his dad tapped on the door frame, and Earl opened his eyes, and smiled,
such a kind, familiar smile that Clark's heart squeezed, knowing that Earl's
life as he knew it was over….
"Jonathan, I've been hoping to see you," he said softly. He caught sight of
Clark hanging over his father's shoulder. "Oh, Clark—Clark, I'm real sorry, I
didn't mean to scare you—"
Clark waved Earl's apology off. "No problem, Mr. Earl. I know you were just
looking for help." Clark smiled, and tried to ignore the pounding ache building
up at the top of his spine.
His dad shook Earl's hand, held it a second longer than necessary. "Earl…what
happened? They're telling me things I'm finding hard to believe."
Earl dropped his dad's hand and closed his eyes. "I—I—it's true. But it was an
accident." Earl opened his eyes again. "You have to believe that I'd never hurt
anyone on purpose. Please."
"Of course, Earl, I know you. I know you'd never do something like that—I'll
speak to whomever it takes, too, let them know what kind of man you are…"
Earl went on as if his dad hadn't spoken, intent and tense. "I was trying to
get to Lionel Luthor—he's the reason I'm like this. Him and his plant—when I
got that job, I was assigned to clean Level 3. They were doing these hush-hush
crop experiments, all jazzed up about a new kind of fertilizer supposed to make
corn grow twice as fast. There was something in the fertilizer that was
unstable, dangerous. There was a huge explosion. I was cleaning there at the
time, and whatever it was… got under my skin. Two months ago, the jitters
started…"
"Earl—doctors, what about—"
"I've talked to dozens! Nobody could tell me what was wrong. They all said they
needed to know what I was exposed to. But when I went back to the plant, they
told me that Level 3 didn't exist. That it never had." He looked more and more
agitated as he spoke, sweat began to run and he looked like the frightening
person they'd found cowering in the loft. The ache in Clark's neck shot up into
his head…he moved back against the wall, and rubbed his temples. Earl was
almost shouting now.
"I got to find out what they were using. That's why I need your help. You gotta
get me out of here. Please, Jonathan!"
"I can't, Earl, you're wanted for murder. We can't just walk out—they'll track
you down—but I'll help any way I can, any legal way, I promise."
"I don't havetime, don't you understand? I don't have any more time…" He seemed
to fold into himself, not speaking, not moving, and after a bit, Clark and his
dad left. Clark felt horribly sad for Earl, and his dad picked up on it and
folded his arm around him. "Son, whatever we can do to help Earl, we will, all
right?"
Clark nodded, hoped his dad was right, that there was some kind of chance for
Mr. Earl….
                                  [img-thing]
The next day was Monday, and school promised to be pretty good—they had a field
trip scheduled that afternoon, which was almost as good as no school at all. Of
course, it was at the fertilizer plant, and that was probably going to be eye-
watering boring but still…out of the classroom.
On the way to school, he sat with Chloe on the bus, and kept his eyes focused
on the road outside his window. The early morning sun turned the grass on the
side of the road gold, dazzled his eyes. He was glad of that. Chloe snuck her
hand over his and squeezed a little. He smiled, still looking out the window.
If he looked out the window, he didn't see Whit and Lana sitting a few seats
ahead of him. It didn't matter, and it wasn't important, he knew—knew it was
meaningless. But it still hurt.
Chloe still had his hand as they got off the bus, and Lana looked at him
strangely. She looked at Chloe, and frowned, and Chloe smiled wide and stuck
her hand in Clark's back pocket—-squeezed. Clark jumped a little and blushed,
and Lana snorted and turned away. "Chloe," he gasped. "What the heck was that?"
"Oh come on Clark—it's funny. Besides, she's been kind of verbally ‘concerned'
lately," and she made air quotes, "about your ‘sexual orientation'.
Concern—that's what princesses call it when they spread vicious rumors." Clark
stared at her, and she frowned at him. "Look, it's your decision, your choice
whether you're out or not—not hers. And Whit is running interference, because
it makes him look bad to be your friend. Asshole."
"You know what? I don't give a shit what Lana says about me, and I'm tired of
hiding. Everyone can just go to hell as far as I'm concerned." Clark was
uncomfortable and upset—he didn't want to fight with Chloe.
Chloe glared at him. "Look, that's easy to say, until everyone does know, and
you have no place to go, and no one to talk to because these creeps will freeze
you out, Clark. I know how the people around here can be. Nobody knows better
than me, the outsider, and I've been here two damn years already… and it won't
just be you getting the treatment. It'll be your mom and dad and your friends…"
Clark swallowed, the lump of misery in his chest choking him. He shook his
head, and Chloe grabbed him by the chin. "Yes Clark—it'll be just like that."
He stared into her eyes, her big wet eyes, and then she yanked his head down
and kissed him thoroughly. He squeezed his eyes tight and hoped he didn't look
as shocked as he felt—catcalls and wolf-whistles filled the air, and when he
opened his eyes, kids were laughing, grinning, pointing…Lana looked
speculative, and Whit…Clark looked away, grabbed Chloe's hand and walked her
into the building.
"It's not going to work—I'm not pretending to date you. I'd rather take the
flak—my parents will back me up. I know they will. As for Whit, he'll do what
he has to—anything he decides is okay with me."
Chloe smiled, her expression equal parts exasperation, and love. "Farm Boy,
you're a real doof, you know. But I love you. I'm not going anywhere, no matter
what happens. Promise."
                                  [img-thing]
"Hello, everybody, I'm Gabe Sullivan, plant manager, and proud father. Hi
sweetheart."
"Hi, Dad," Chloe smiled like she was choking and waved at her dad. From the
side of her mouth she whispered, "Kill me now…" and tried to slip behind Clark.
Gabe spread his arms and gestured around the ugly concrete space filled with
cable and conduits as if they were in a museum, his eyes sparkled with barely
contained humor, and he said loudly, "Welcome to LuthorCorp, where we give a
crap."
Chloe whispered to Clark, "No seriously—kill me. Now."
Clark snorted and nudged her, and she fell against him, laughing. He grinned
and looked around to find Pete. Whit was looking at him, face expressionless.
His arm was around Lana, but it was obvious she wasn't his focus. Clark looked
away, angry that he felt even the smallest prick of guilt. Where did Whit get
the nerve to be upset? Because for one day, he had to deal with what Clark
dealt with daily? Clark turned away and gave his attention back to Mr.
Sullivan.
"—right—just a little fertilizer humor there. Now, before we go inside, I need
you all to remove your cell phones, any jewelry. Anything that jangles,
dangles, or rings needs to go in these plastic trays right here. All right, any
other questions?"
Clark thought about what Earl told his dad, and raised his hand tentatively and
asked, "Is there a third level here? I heard there was one…" He trailed off,
feeling pretty much like a fool.
Mr. Sullivan grinned and said, "Oh yeah—that's the level we do the alien
autopsies on." He winked, and smiled at the resulting laughter. "Now, if
everyone is ready?"
Pete came up to stand with them. "Hey, Chloe, hey, Clark—are you as excited as
I am?"
Clark grinned, "More, I think. It's not every day you get to spend looking at…"
"Shit?" Pete grinned, and Clark nodded.
"Thanks, I was going to say doodie, but you saved me from myself."
"Glad to be of service, Clark," he chuckled.
Chloe elbowed Clark and jerked her chin towards the rest of the group. "I'm
enjoying the Hope and Crosby road show here as much as anyone, but we better
get moving—the crowd's leaving us."
Pete mouthed, ‘Who?' and Clark shrugged, mouthed back, ‘Chloe.' and that seemed
to explain it just fine to Pete. They followed the group as it made its way
down a long concrete ramp leading away from the loading dock they'd entered at,
and along the way, Mr. Sullivan pointed out various objects of interest, with
various degrees of warning, until they'd reached a point obviously meant to be
the highlight of the tour, a secure room filled with computers, and wall size
screens reading out the life of the plant— raw materials, temperatures, cooking
product and finished product—
"This is it. The plant's mission control. 100,000 tons of animal waste is
processed here every year. Trust me, the results can be pretty explosive. So if
any of you had beans for lunch, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
The kids laughed and Chloe glanced at Clark and Pete with an apologetic shrug,
whispered, "Among his peers, he's considered quite witty."
Pete and Clark both snorted. "Unh-hunh. I'm sure," Pete said.
Mr. Sullivan was about to usher the group along, when an odd rattling sound
came from behind a closed door. Clark turned to the sound—the door's handle was
shaking crazily.
"What the heck…" Mr. Sullivan frowned, and held up his hand, stopping the tour.
"Hold on, everyone. I need to check this out." He walked towards the closed
door, and as he reached out for the handle, Earl burst through. He grabbed Mr.
Sullivan around the neck, pressed a gun to his temple. "Everyone, get against
the wall, and shut up—you—" he tightened his grip on Mr. Sullivan's neck, "—you
take me to Level Three, now."
"Level—but there's no such thing," Gabe gasped.
Chloe grabbed Clark's wrist, "Daddy…" she whispered, and dug her nails into
Clark's hand. He winced, and let her—he understood how terrified she was.
"You're lying—" Earl snarled, was interrupted by a phone ringing—everyone
jumped at the oddly normal noise. Earl pushed Mr. Sullivan towards the middle
of the room, and a phone on a desk there. "Answer it—I'm right behind you."
Earl's jaw was clenched tight, sweat beaded his face, pain turned his cocoa
skin gray. It was obvious Earl was in a lot of pain. Clark shuddered. Thumping
started behind his eyes, and sent fingers of pain down his spine, as if an echo
of Earl's pain was worming its way into him. He missed what Mr. Sullivan was
saying but Earl grabbed the phone from him and shouted into it, "Put Luthor on
the phone—I won't talk to anyone else, you hear?"
He was breathing heavily, and closed his eyes for a moment. Gabe moved—Earl
slammed his hand on the table and everyone jumped. "Don't you move!" He looked
up suddenly at a security camera trained on the center of the room. He smiled a
little and reached over the desk and turned on the speaker function. "So, Mr.
Luthor. I finally have your attention." He moved jerkily about the room, as if
standing still was painful, but moving painful as well. Clark's stomach twisted
and churned as Earl moved close and then away again.
A voice crackling with static came over the speakers. "Earl, why don't you come
out so we can talk. We can discuss your concerns—"
"All I want—all I need to know is what that stuff is on Level Three." Earl was
sweating and grimacing, wiping at his eyes and mouth. Whatever was affecting
him seemed to be getting worse, Clark thought.
Lionel Luthor spoke on, "Earl, you're sick and we can help you. Let those
people go and we'll work something out."
Earl was standing by methane tanks that sat against the far wall now, breathing
harder and harder. Clark couldn't hold himself back any longer. "Mr. Earl.
Please listen to them—or—or, let me help you—let my dad help you—"
Earl shuddered and groaned, the sound climbing…he began to shake and in seconds
was in a full blown seizure, a frightening sight—he seemed to be moving
impossibly fast—there were moments when he was just a blur….
Earl reached out and clutched the methane tank valves, snapped one off in his
jittering grip. He looked at his hand in disbelief, gasped in horror as the
reading began rising—Clark ran towards him and Earl panicked, he swung,
connected, and pain burst like fireworks in Clark's head. He thought he heard
his name shouted—he flew backwards and nearly bowled over Chloe and Lana.
Someone kept him from falling, held him up. He looked back and recognized
Whit's teammate, Fred. "Don't," he said quietly when Clark wanted to run back
to Earl.
Earl was frantic, howling at the camera. "See what you made me do? See this?"
He held the snapped off valve from the methane tank—gas was rapidly filling the
space. "This place is going to blow—it's all Luthor's fault!"
The voice on the phone was different now—"Mr. Jenkins—Earl. Mr. Luthor wants to
help. Help us to help you. We saw what happened; you know the danger everyone
is in now—at least let the kids out. My men will come to the door to help them
out. Let them go, Earl, you don't want to hurt anyone else."
Earl dropped the broken valve and sat heavily on the edge of the desk, his head
in his hands. The sob that shook his shoulders was clearly audible—Clark's
chest was tight, he felt his own breath hitch. Earl's suffering filled the
control room.
Farther down the line of students, Whitney talked quietly and intensely with
Pete and Fred. They nodded and Whit began moving towards Earl, slowly, trying
to keep out of his sight. Clark shouldered up next to him and Whit pushed him
back. "Go back to the wall before you get hurt worse."
"No! I'm not hiding back there—you need my help."
"Clark, you look like shit—and I bet you have one of those headaches, right?"
He crouched, pulling Clark into a crouch with him. "Here." Whit pulled a bottle
of aspirin out of his jacket pocket, popped the cap and shook a few into
Clark's hand. "Please keep out of the way, I need to know you're safe, okay?"
Clark threw the pills on the floor. "Fuck that! I'm not going to let you risk
yourself while I'm sitting back—"
"God damn it, will you please listen to me? I'm faster and stronger than you; I
have a better chance than anyone except Fred to take this guy out, and he's
helping the teachers keep everyone together so—" He leaned closer and said "I
can't kiss you in front of these people, but I can tell you I love you. Go
stand with Fred and Lana, okay? Please?"
Clark was angry, and scared for Whit, but he nodded. He said, "Me too. Be
careful." He felt Lana's eyes on him all the way back to the wall; he leaned
against it for a moment, staring at nothing, and slid slowly down to sit beside
Fred and Whitney's girlfriend. He felt weak, felt bruised all over, like he'd
been beaten up.
"He'll be okay," Fred said in a matter-of-fact voice, and then turned to Lana
and pat her shoulder. "Don't worry." She looked up at Fred, and a tear hung for
a moment from her mascaraed lashes, made its way down her perfectly blushed
cheek. The look she gave Clark was a lot icier. Clark only thought her blush
was a few shades too orange, and turned to track Whit's progress. Every step he
took closer to Earl made Clark's breath catch….
Whit rushed Earl, counting on his speed and strength to surprise him—knocked
the gun from Earl's hand. It went flying, hit the metal grating of the floor
and discharged. Earl shouted, "No!" as a bullet tore through Whit's arm. Earl
scrambled to the floor, leaped to his feet with the gun back in his hand,
completely panicked and on the edge of losing all control. "Everyone get the
hell back down!"
Clark jumped up, ready to run to Whit, and Fred grabbed him, yanked him down to
the floor. He hit the floor hard enough to knock a grunt out of him, and Fred
said calmly, "He wants you safe. Stay here."
"Get the fuck off of me." Clark felt the cloud of discomfort behind his eyes
become a focused spear of pain. He felt as if—as if he could shoot lasers from
his eyes. He tried to pull away from Fred's grip but his hand only tightened on
Clark's arm.
"No. Wait."
Lana and a few other classmates pulled Whit back to the huddled knot of
students. Lana was the focus of the group, all eyes were on her, brimming with
sympathy, as she cried and sobbed over Whit. She stroked Whit's hair, and
carefully not touching his arm, shifted him a little so that the blood ran to
the floor and not her lap.
"No, no, no—this wasn't how it was supposed to be," Earl cried, and the phone
crackled to life—
"Earl—we saw what happened, we know you didn't intend for that to happen. Can
you send the boy out?"
Earl turned to the camera. "Send in Lionel Luthor, send him in now."
"Earl, we want to do that, but we need you to show good faith…let the kids go,
Earl. Let them out, and Mr. Luthor will come in."
Earl stared at the floor; shaking gently as waves swept his body…he finally
nodded, "Okay. Everyone can go." He pointed the gun at the floor. "Go. Get out.
Everyone," he indicted Mr. Sullivan, the technicians, the teachers. "You too,
get out."
As soon as Earl agreed to let the group go, the negotiator spoke. "Earl, we're
bringing an ambulance around, okay—a stretcher, to get the kid out. Let them
in, they'll take the kid, and then Mr. Luthor will come in. Talk to you."
Earl panted as a particularly hard wave hit him; he just managed to nod his
agreement. The group filed out quickly, but Clark stayed against the wall,
trying to make himself small. Fred managed to convince Lana to leave, told her
that for Whit's sake, he needed to know she got out, unhurt, and glanced back
at Clark with a wry look as he pushed her gently towards the tail end of the
departing crowd. "He loves me, he always puts my welfare first," she sniffed
and leaned heavily on Fred as he escorted her out, so involved in her own pain
that she missed Clark in the shadows.
"Yeah," Fred said. "He's a man in love."
Earl sighed and slumped forward on the desk, oblivious, as Clark inched his way
over to Whitney, slumped on the floor and holding a thick wad of material torn
from a shirt against his arm. "Clark, you have to get out, too. I'm okay—it
hurts but I'm hardly going to die." He tried to smile, but his lips trembled,
his face was pale and wet with sweat.
Clark sat down with him. "Don't be an a-hole, Whit. I'm not going anywhere."
There was a noise in the corridor, and they could see the stretcher moving in.
Earl groaned as an on-coming seizure jerked him upright and he staggered—waved
the gun in Clark's direction, yelled, "Get gone, Clark, go ahead now, your
friend will be fine—" Earl's eyes went round, he threw his arms wide as the
sound of a gunshot split the air—blood splattered Clark, hot and acidic,
burning him. He screamed and screamed….
Sharpshooters were standing behind the stretcher and Whit was staggering to his
feet and yelling Clark's name and the world flipped and rushed into darkness….
The next thing Clark knew, they were in the hallway, his face being wiped clean
of Earl's blood and amazingly, the pain was gone. Whit was on the stretcher and
it took Clark but a few seconds to convince the EMTs he was okay and that he
needed to follow Whit. He kept pace with the stretcher, not letting them push
him away, his fingertips grazing Whit's over and over.
"You'll be okay, you'll be fine," Whit was gasping as he reached out for Clark.
"Not your fault, Clark."
Clark scrubbed at his face with the heel of his hand, smearing tears and a
little of what was left of the blood…He reached down and brushed Whit's fingers
with his. "I know, I know…hey, I'm supposed to be comforting you, goof." Clark
felt weak and a little ill, but wonderful too, Whit really was going to be
fine. Tiny, tiny green sparks flared and died as he wiped his hand on his
jacket. He smiled down at Whit, and risked another brief caress of his hand.
They stopped at the ambulance, and Clark heard his parents call out to him,
heard Whit's mother call his name. He looked to see Whit's parents running
towards him , beyond them he could see Lionel Luthor and another man whose back
was to the man even though Mr. Luthor was obviously talking to him. Clark bent
towards Whit, who was smiling blearily up at him, groggy with painkillers.
Whispered in his ear, "I have to go now, Whit, your parents are coming—I love
you."
Whit nodded, and Clark took his hand, for a moment everything he felt for Whit
nearly overpowered him…Mr. Luthor was almost on them, his mouth drawn into a
thin slash of annoyance, and over his shoulder, the other man smirked at him,
his eyes focused on Clark's fingers, where they touched Whit's wrist. Clark
pulled them away and blushed…a chill swept his whole body when he realized who
the man was.
Time slowed, and then speeded up—Clark's mom and dad grabbed him and clung to
him, Whit's mom and dad and Whit's girlfriend blocked the view of the
stretcher, and Clark suddenly found himself face to face with the notorious Mr.
Luthor. He stopped and looked at Clark as if he was something scraped from the
bottom of his hand-made Italian leather driving moccasins.
"That was brave of you and your friend—but you could both have ended up
seriously wounded, and that would have been an unfair pain to inflict on your
parents."
Clark marveled—so that was what writers meant when they described a voice as
oily.
"Leave him alone, Dad. He doesn't strike me as the kind of guy to run out on
a…friend…"
Behind Lionel Luthor, stood Lex Luthor. Clark's heart slammed painfully. Lex
Luthor…he flushed. Lex Luthor saw him touch Whitney; read the desire in him to
kiss Whit. This man knew it. The way he'd said ‘friend'…Lex's eyes crawled over
him, lingering places that made Clark want to cover—suddenly the man's
expression changed, became less predatory. Surprise lit his gray eyes. He
looked as though he recognized Clark, and then his dad grabbed his arm and
pulled, not gently.
"Come along Lex, let the people whose job it is to handle these type of things
finish this business."
"God, yes, are we leaving this crap hole now?" He drawled, and walked in a way
that made Clark turn to watch him. And feel horribly, horribly guilty when he
heard the ambulance pulling off with Whit inside and he hadn't turned to watch
it go.
                                  [img-thing]
Clark was sitting on the edge of an exam table, waiting to be released. The
nurse with him assured him his parents were waiting in the lobby to pick him
up—that his friend was fine, and he could speak to him right after he spoke
with Mr. Luthor's man. She told him it wasn't an option— no one was leaving the
clinic until they'd talked to Mr. Luthor. The man must have more money than
God, Clark thought, in order to make the doctors and Smallville cops
practically dance to his tune. Clark had been—not exactly ignored—but after a
quick exam revealed no injuries, he got a pat on the back and a paper cup with
a few pills rolling about the bottom.
"Something to help calm you," the nurse had smiled, and finally left Clark
alone in the chilly exam room. Clark stared at the little pills thoughtfully,
wondered if he should take them, shook his head. It was over, he was fine.
Ready to go home. He jumped down from the table and picked up his shirt;
grimaced at the stiff dark spots on the collar and sleeves…he rolled it in a
ball and crammed it into the garbage pail. His t-shirt would have to do—nothing
in the world would make him ever wear that shirt again.
There was a tap on the door, and a long lean form slouched in the doorway.
"Still here and bored. Dad's interviewing all the kids from the event…so. I
know you, don't I?"
Clark thanked God he wasn't blushing for once. "No, I don't think so."
Lex Luthor tilted his head just a bit, raised an eyebrow, and glided into the
room—it was the only way Clark could describe the movement. He smirked at
Clark, grey eyes sweeping him from head to toe, doing that disconcerting x-ray
vision thing he'd done at the plant—as if he was looking beneath his
clothes—deeper than that, even—right into his brain.
Lex…calling the man by his first name, even if only in his mind, was oddly
intimate. Clark rolled the name silently in his mouth….Lex was idly chewing
gum, his lips quirked, and a muscle on his jaw worked and Clark suddenly,
horribly, had a complete mental picture of Lex swallowing him—‘Oh, I'm so sorry
Whit,' he apologized silently, and tried to cover his guilty start.
Lex licked at a scar on his upper lip. "You sick?"
"Better now," Clark replied. Something about their terse conversation made him
smile, and Lex looked mildly surprised, but smiled back. It was a real smile,
and it did something to Clark. He had to look down to reset his expression.
"Gum?" the man asked, and before Clark could move, he was inches from him,
close enough that Clark could smell mint, and an incredible cologne, like
nothing he'd ever smelled before in his life…heat rolled off the slim body and
Clark tried to move back without seeming to. Lex's voice warmed his ear, made
him tingle. "I do know you," he murmured.
There was a commotion in the hallway, and the warmth peeled away from Lex's
expression. Now he looked disdainful and amused at Clark's expense. He turned
to face the doorway—
"Lex. Wait in the hall, this won't take a moment." Lionel Luthor and a group of
identical guys in suits burst into the room. Eyes cold and sharp as lasers
bored into Clark's. "A moment of your time, Mister…"
"Kent," one of the faceless suits provided. "Clark Kent."
Clark answered the questions asked of him with half of his attention; the rest
was focused on Lex Luthor—and guilt. He was getting very familiar with guilt.
***** Chapter 9 *****
 [img-thing] I'm sitting on the bus, and it's dark, all the other seats are
empty. I can't see the driver, but that doesn't bother me, there must be a
driver because we're moving. As I'm thinking that, the bus slows, comes to a
stop. The doors sigh open and someone gets on. They head right to me, gracing
me with a wide smile and I see it's the Boy, my friend. I'm so happy.
He sits next to me, and I have to smile too. This feeling I get—it's huge and
warm, like love. He's so…good, this boy. He's just such a good person you have
to love him, reach out for him. I touch his shoulder and it's so hot, it
surprises me…
Hey. I missed you today, he says and I know it means we spend every day
together, closer than brothers. He's my heart, and I'm his soul. I see it in
his ocean green eyes, the curve of his red, red lips. I know I've known him my
whole life, this magic Boy.
Let's have fun—I want to show you something cool, the Boy says and the bus
stops. We get off, and we're in the bus depot. No one is here, no voices no
sound…he takes my hand and we're running, laughing…he's so alive, so much fun.
I want to be as free and happy, as beautiful as he is, and he says you are,
dummy, of course you are. He stops and takes both my hands and for one
awfulamazing second, I think he's going to kiss me but he says, look up.
I look up and suddenly—we're zooming into the sky and I'm screaming—no I'm
laughing and I realize that I was never afraid of heights, I just wasn't ready
to fly yet. You see, he says, it's so easy. Are you ready? I nod, yes! and he
swings me around, laughing his wonderful laugh and he lets go of my hands and I
zoom higher higher, I'm flying—
 
Clark woke up with his face wet, and no idea why—he wasn't sure if his dream
had been that terribly sad, or incredibly happy, he didn't remember any of it,
he just knew that he was crying. He glanced over at the TV muttering away on
his dresser, had been all night long. He'd forgotten to set the sleep timer
again and he was in for it if Dad heard.
He glanced at the screen.
Any rational thought crashed—the local news was high-lighting the departure of
Lex Luthor and his father. They were boarding a helicopter, leaving Smallville
again. He watched and felt like something was being taken from him. His vision
blurred. He gulped air, and shook himself like a wet dog—told himself wake up
for real this time, because the crying thing was freaky and weird.
He pulled himself out of bed, groaned when he glanced out the window at the sun
beginning to crest the barn. Saturday. Fence maintenance today, yippee. Re-
stapling and tightening the wire, checking the rails and posts for rot—so much
joy. Thank goodness they didn't have to do it often, but it was no fun on a
chilly morning, thermos of hot cocoa or not.
He showered and dressed, and remembered to wear a pair of boot socks over his
cotton socks—he hated when his feet got cold—and headed to the kitchen. He
could smell breakfast, but his mom wasn't eating, she had her hands over her
mouth, barely muffling a pained moan. "Mom! What's wrong?"
"Oh Clark," she gasped. She was bent at the waist and hanging onto the counter
for dear life. Her knuckles were white, her face just as pale. "Oh Clark—"She
leaned over the garbage can and threw up. "Oh God," she groaned, "sorry,
sorry—"
"Mom, it's okay!" He quickly ran a glass of water for her. "Here, rinse," he
said, and rubbed her back as she did. "You want some toast, or some crackers?"
She shook her head. "No…no." She took a deep shaky breath, and sat at the
table. Clark set the tea kettle on a burner, and waited for the water to heat.
His dad was probably in the truck shed, loading the truck with the supplies
they needed. He had time to make his mom a cup of tea, maybe make some toast
anyway.
When the toast popped up, he sat a mug and a plate with toast in front of her,
and she grabbed a slice without thinking, nibbled on it and Clark doubted she
was even aware she was eating. "Oh dear…this isn't the first time this has
happened." She nibbled a corner from the toast and stopped, staring at the
slice in her hand with a mild expression of confusion. "Clark…" She laid the
toast back on the plate and sighed. "I'm worried."
Those two strangely calm words frightened the hell out of Clark. His mom was
admitting to being scared? "Mom, call the doctor—make an appointment." He
handed her the phone. "Now. Make one now."
She mock glared at him. "You're so pushy. Just like your father."
"I know you, Mom; you'll never call unless I watch you. What's Dad said about
this?"
"He doesn't know."
"Mom. That's crazy. Make your appointment and tell Dad, okay?"
She nodded, as she dialed. "See? Calling. Appointmenting."
He smiled and headed out to start his chores.
                                  [img-thing]
"Clark." Chloe tossed her books onto the table, and got a pointed look from the
librarian. "Would you be surprised to know that almost any information about
Earl Jenkins is gone? That the whole thing got reported as a hostage situation
but nothing was mentioned about his condition? And there's something else—you
know that hermit out in the woods?"
Clark finally looked up from his notebook, confused by the abrupt turn into the
woods. "Hermit? What hermit?"
"You know, that junk artist, the one that lives in a trailer out there in the
woods. He killed somebody." The librarian shushed her, and Chloe glared back as
she dropped her book bag to the floor.
"What? I didn't hear about a murder."
"Hardly anyone has. He killed some real estate agent or something. And—he's
gone—I mean really gone, disappeared, left without a trace."
"Well, that's not really strange—if he killed the guy, he wouldn't be sitting
around waiting to be caught."
"Yeah, but would he burn down his trailer and practically wipe clean any trace
of him ever living here? It's the Spooks, Clark, I'm telling you." Her look
said don't argue with me, and Clark shook his head.
"Chloe, for God's sake…"For the last year, she'd been convinced that someone
was collecting the oddities in Smallville. Artifacts, meteorites—people. People
with strange...afflictions, like Sean, like Earl…they disappeared or died,
people around them disappeared….
Clark wanted to believe it was ridiculous. If such a thing were true, than
Chloe was putting herself in danger—and he might be in danger himself. "Chloe,
you really shouldn't be poking around where you're not invited, it's too risky.
"Oh, like you believe in the W.O.W. Clark. So, here by yourself? Where's the
boyfriend," she whispered.
"He's been kind of busy lately."
He dropped his eyes, and Chloe reached over and tilted his head back up. "You
know he's got a lot to do lately. I'm sure it's nothing—besides, Her Royal
Highness has been complaining lately that he's not around much."
"See," he said, "that makes me feel better not at all, thank you." But he
smiled and she grinned back.
"Don't worry, Clark—everything will be fine, and you and your special friend
have the whole summer to spend together, right?
"Stop. What if he goes off to school and forgets all about me? What if I'm just
a fling—an experiment?"
She rolled her eyes and sighed dramatically. "First off—Metropolis isn't that
far from here. Second—even if it was curiosity at first, you can't honestly
believe that's the case now. That boy is hooked, leashed and branded." She
stopped a second and leered until Clark nudged her none too gently. "Besides,
doesn't he tell you all the time how much he cares?"
Clark blushed. "How did you know?"
"I didn't until right now." She grinned, and bounced to her feet. "Okay—back to
class—I'll see you after school."
                                  [img-thing]
Whitney didn't call that day, or the next day, or the next. He passed Clark in
the hall with a wave and a grunt, and not much more. Sometimes he left school
early, or didn't show up at all; he didn't show up for practices. He worked at
his dad's store, a lot, and Clark stopped coming in on the days Whit was
working—Whit made it plain he didn't want to see Clark there. He stopped trying
to call Whit, because whenever he did call, Whit wasn't home, or wasn't taking
calls…
Clark wondered if Whit was angry about Chloe, he worried that maybe it was just
over between the two of them—that Whit was bored by him, and he thought he'd
already experienced the worst pain imaginable but he hadn't. Nothing had ever
hurt like this.
A day or two later, he heard around school that Whitney's dad had had a heart
attack—and the fact that Whit himself hadn't told him was devastating. And then
of course he felt guilty that he was upset for himself, when Whit was the one
suffering.
Lana walked around the school looking as stunned and lost as he felt and he did
his best to keep out of her way. Whitney was avoiding her too, and that should
have made him feel better, but it didn't.
                                  [img-thing]
Clark sat on a low sofa tucked into a corner of the Beanery, feet propped up on
his book bag, watching traffic through the big front windows. He was nursing a
cooling café au lait, and thinking about Whitney… he hadn't seen him at all in
school today. Again. He was going to mess up his scholarship. Mess up
everything if he didn't stop…it was all about Whit's dad, and there was nothing
Clark could do because Whit wouldn't let him do anything. Whit wasn't talking
to him; he wasn't talking to Lana—
Lana…God forbid he try to talk to her about Whit. Clark grimaced. He didn't
like her. And he understood quite clearly she didn't like him—and of course,
she didn't have a reason to. They walked around each other like gunslingers,
watching to see whose hand dropped first…she had to know that Whit wasn't very
much hers, not like he was Clark's. Clark sighed and turned to people watching.
He watched couples smile at each other, laugh and hold hands, kiss. A wave of
anger-sadness-frustration swept over him, and again he sighed deeply, and told
himself to let it go…
The shop door opened and in walked the Princess, and Clark groaned inwardly. Of
all people he'd pay not to see…she hadn't seen him yet, and Clark wondered if
he could get up and leave without looking obvious.
She stopped, looked at him, looked away. Took a hesitant step away, before she
straightened and walked over. "Clark." And sat down. Clark stared back, and
gulped.
"Yes…?"
"What's wrong with Whitney? What's going on?"
"Why are you asking me? If you don't know, than what makes you think I—"
She waved him to silence. "Spare me. You know why I'm asking you. If you
don't," and she fixed him with an icy glare, "you're the only one in the damn
town who doesn't know."
Clark felt ill—how in the hell was he supposed to handle this situation? "Lana,
I—I..."He wound down into silence. What could he do? Apologize? Demand she
leave?
She pushed back against her side of the thankfully long couch. Nervously, he
reached for his cup, and jogged it—liquid splashed over the low table. Her
smile warmed a little as he tried to mop up the mess with handfuls of napkins.
The harder he wiped, the worse he smeared milky coffee about. She stopped his
frantic efforts with a feather light touch of her hand. Clark looked and
thought foggily that she had beautiful hands, perfectly shaped, tiny. The way
she moved them, they were as expressive and delicate as butterflies…he pictured
them moving across Whit's skin—it seemed right. He looked away from her, her
hands, and blushed.
"He's going to lose everything if he doesn't pull it together, Clark. Try to
get him to—"She stopped and glared at Clark. "What?"
"How can you be so…causal? So—"coldly matter-of-fact about a horrible
situation, he wanted to say.
"Don't ask, Clark. You know why." She leaned towards him a little, and said,
"I'll be the one, Clark. When it's time for happily ever after, it'll be me."
"Lana…You're wrong; I know you're wrong. "I think, I think…okay, I can try to
talk to him," Clark said and slumped on the couch. She sagged a little too, as
if the weight of speaking to him was too much. He knew that feeling well. He
knuckled the back of his neck, trying to loosen the tight knot of muscles,
wishing she would leave.
She closed her eyes and spoke so softly Clark had to strain to hear her. "Why
are you ruining my life—and Whit's? Why can't you just leave us alone?" She
opened her eyes; they were bright, and wet. "I've never hated anyone the way I
hate you."
He inhaled sharply, the look she gave him was so full of menace that he pulled
away from her, and in the next instance, hatred was gone again, and she just
looked…tired. Annoyed. "Okay, I think I've humiliated myself enough today." She
stood abruptly, and her mouth worked—she turned and walked away.
Clark felt like he'd run miles, his heart was pounding, he felt exposed, as if
something was hanging over him, ready to drop down and rip him to shreds. He
reached for his coffee with a shaky hand, grimaced. Half of it was drying on
the table and what was left was scummy looking and cold. God, that'd been
horrible, a truly fucking weird encounter. He stomach did a slow roll. He knew
she hated him but…he didn't have the strength to hate anyone that much. He
shivered. What the hell was Whit thinking?
                                  [img-thing]
Whitney stood outside of the ICU, waited for his mother. He leaned against the
cool tile wall, closed his eyes and for a minute played Anywhere But Here…on a
beach, him and Clark alone, waves washing across pink sand and Clark, naked,
dripping wet, and golden in the sun—
"Whitney. Dear, it's okay, your father's doing much better." His mother patted
his arm with a sympathetic look and he felt like scum. She thought he was upset
about his dad and here he was thinking about his—his—Clark. Shit. He couldn't
even think it standing next to his mom.
"Uh, good, great, Mom."
"You can go in and talk to him. He's awake."
"He probably needs his rest, Mom."
"Oh, go in Whitney. He'll be glad to see you, and maybe you won't worry as
much." She squeezed his arm, and he nodded.
He walked into the dim room. His dad was awake, and watching him come in.
Whitney stopped at the foot of the bed. He said, "Hi Dad. How are you feeling?"
and winced inside.
His dad didn't speak for a moment, and then in a raspy dry voice, replied. "How
do you think I'm feeling? Who's running the store?"
"Foster," Foster was the store's assistant manager. His dad grunted, and
Whitney wondered if he clamped shut the tubes going into him, what would
happen. "He's there in the day, I'm there at night. I mean when I'm not at
practice or—"
"You're not missing practices, are you? Football's your only chance to go to
Kansas State. Don't screw it up—"
"Dad—Dad. I'm trying. You need to rest. I'll come back tomorrow. Okay? I'll
send Mom back in."
His dad stared at him. "Sure. You do that."
                                  [img-thing]
Whit stalked out of the hospital, and with each angry step away from the ICU,
his head ached even more. He was feeling…stupid, inadequate. Like always. He
was losing fucking everything. Lana would be gone like smoke as soon as she
heard he'd lost the scholarship—his shot at pro ball. His dad was going to lose
it; his mom was going to give him that fucking martyr look. It wasn't like he
didn't know already that he was a disappointment to his dad. It was in every
word he spared for him, every look…shit—it would have been easier he'd died
instead of losing the scholarship.
Whit slammed his fist into the side of his truck, cursed aloud and yanked the
door open. God. He didn't even want Lana. It was what his folks wanted, the
life they wanted for him—wife and kids and how the fuck was he ever going to
get out from under that? They weren't Kents, his folks—they could barely deal
with the idea of Pete, or Principal Kwan, or anyone else the slightest bit
different from them. There was no way in hell they'd be able to handle their
son the faggot.
Clark…Clark was pulling away anyway. For the best, that was. Maybe once Clark
left him, his life would go back to normal; maybe Clark wouldn't haunt him and
turn his nice boring, average life upside down. If he could just stop dreaming
about him, wanting him.
Whit rested his head on the steering wheel, took deep breaths. After a moment
or two, he straightened and rolled his shoulders—rubbed hard at his eyes and
sighed. Okay. He was done whining—time to get back to the real world.
                                  [img-thing]
The crowds emptied out of the Avalon, and Whit guided Lana through the people
chatting on the sidewalk outside of the theater. "Do you want to go home now,
or get something to eat in Granville?" Whit checked his watch. "I've got some
time before I have to go back."
Lana shrugged. "Whatever you want, Whitney…I have to say, I really would rather
we'd gone to see Moulin Rouge instead."
He looked at her. "Why didn't you say so, before we…"He stopped and took a
breath—so damn typical of her… "Lana…I have something I need to tell you.
Just…bear with me, okay?"
"All right, you can tell me on the way to the truck." She grabbed Whit's hand,
and they walked along the sidewalk, headed for the lot opposite the movie
house. Lana's hand was still in his, tiny and fine boned, like a bird. He
wanted to let it go, but she expected him to hold it…
"So speak, Whitney. Tell me what you wanted to."
"I lost the scholarship. I'm not going to college."
She dropped his hand, her own flying to her face. "You did what? Oh my—how
could you? That was our future—how could you throw it away?"
"Look, I had to take care of the store—take care of my mom and dad. The heart
attack did a lot of damage, Lana. We're not sure what's going to happen. He
needs me, so I'm staying. Because it's the right thing to do."
Her gaze pierced him like it hadn't in a long time. She was suddenly there, and
real, and he was ashamed. "The right thing to do, Whitney?" Her tone was
sardonic, her expression bitter.
"Lana. You know this isn't…love. I mean, can you honestly say you love me? The
way two people should be in love?"
She stalked across the lot towards the truck, snapped at him, "We could have
had a good life together; I could have made you happy." Her knuckles paled, the
grip on her purse strap folded the thick leather in two, her hand shook a
little. "I know you needed to help your dad, but you've thrown our future away
looking for approval…"She shook her head again. "You're not going to get it
this way, Whitney."
Whitney pulled open the door, and let her slide in, her tiny frame barely
filling the seat. He sighed and walked towards his side, climbed in. "You're a
freshman, Lana. You shouldn't even be thinking forever after yet—you're going
to college. So many things will change for you." Whit noticed she was staring
out of the window; she looked like she hadn't heard a word. "There's one other
thing, Lana. Clark—"
She held up her hand. "We don't need to talk about that. I know about that. She
stabbed him with her gaze again. "I know all I want to know, anyway. I never
should have questioned his orientation."
Whit drove out of the lot, headed home. Street lights over the road cast
flickering shadows across her face but he could see her in the window, and it
was hard not to stare at her, try to see into her…try to understand what was
happening in her head. "So…you…think I got curious about him and this happened?
Like it's your fault?" He tried to stifle a snicker.
"I'm not saying that," she huffed and then bit her lip. "Maybe it is. Maybe if
I'd let you—you know—instead of just…"Her nose wrinkled. "Maybe it is my fault.
And Clark's."
The way her voice dropped when she said Clark's name sent a shiver up his
spine.
"Don't—don't do anything to hurt Clark."
"Don't be ridiculous. How can I hurt Clark? There's nothing I could do to Clark
to hurt him, more than he's hurt me. More than you've hurt me. I know you think
I don't love you, and that's not true, I do. If it's not the way you want, I'm
sorry."
Whit sighed deeply. "I know. I'm sorry, and I know what I've done to you is
wrong—"
She waved her hand. "Let me tell you something, Whitney Fordman— until you
graduate—and you will graduate; we'll make sure of that—you and I will be the
perfect boyfriend and girlfriend, you'll be my prom date, and your little
friend better go along with it. You give me this—you owe me."
Whit chewed on his lip. "Clark won't go for it. He'll see this as my
opportunity to come out."
"Tell him it'll kill your dad. That's all you have to say. Don't you know him
at all? Family is everything for him."
Whit looked at her, watched her talking and thought that she'd make some guy a
great wife—some corporate ladder climbing cut-throat bastard. He felt sorry for
the guy all ready. And then she turned to him, her eyes were shimmery and wet,
her lip trembled just a bit and he felt compelled to hug her, sooth her.
"It's the one thing about Clark I understand," she said and wiped her eyes.
"Take me home, please."
                                  [img-thing]
Whitney walked across the crowded aisle towards the cash register. He waved the
kid on it off, told him to clock out. One more hour to go.
He closed the other registers, got the kids to start cleaning up for tomorrow.
One half hour to go.
He watched the clock.
The clock was God. God was hanging from the middle of the store, a big four-
sided monstrosity like something the star-crossed lovers in an old black and
white movie would meet under …okay, he never used to think like that. That was
definitely Clark's fault…. Twenty minutes to go.
He squinted at it; imagined moving the damn hands with the power of his
mind…just a few more minutes and this shit would be over…"Thank you, don't
forget your change," he smiled at the old broad in front of him, and wished
she'd move her ancient self out the front doors so he could lock up and get out
himself. The doors opened again, and some guys entered. One of them looked
vaguely familiar… "We're closing," he said. Repeated it when they didn't move.
The guys turned to him as one, reminding him of a pack of wolves. One of the
guys, the shorter one, moved forward and the other two kind of eased behind
him. He asked, "Hey…aren't you Whitney Fordman?"
"Unh, yeah." Whit frowned at the guy, glanced pointedly at the clock again.
"Wade Mahaney. I saw you throw for 300 yards against Topeka last year. That was
a great game, man. Say, I heard that you were trying for a full ride to Kansas
State."
"Yeah, well. That didn't work out. Listen—we're closed, so if you don't mind—"
The guy moved closer, and leaned an elbow on the counter, smiling at him. "Man,
I know all about how much that shit sucks. Senior year I got sacked, blew out
my knee, had to have four operations." He leaned both elbows on the glass.
Whit moved back from the counter and folded his arms over his chest. "Tough
break for you."
Wade nodded. "Yep. Dozen fucking full scholarship offers, and then they all
went
away—"He snapped his fingers and grinned, "like that." He pushed back from the
counter. "So. What's your game plan now?"
Whitney walked pointedly to the door, opened it. "Don't have one, don't give a
shit. Closed now, understand?"
Wade laughed like Whit told the best joke he' ever heard, and the other two
joined in. "Hey, why don't you come out with us—party?"
"Can't. I got stuff to do."
Wade shrugged, "Okay. No problem—look," he grabbed a piece of paper and grabbed
a pen from the counter. "Here." He scribbled on the paper. "This is our place.
When you want, swing by. We can talk. Or, you know, party. There's always a
party at our place." He grinned, winked and walked out of the door. The other
two followed him out, laughing.
Whit slammed the door behind them and locked it. Glared at his image in the
dark glass. He turned back to the monster clock on high…one minute.
                                  [img-thing]
Whit called his mother, told her the store was locked down, and he was going to
pick up something to eat. Told her he wasn't going to the hospital that night,
wasn't sure if he was going to sleep at home or not.
"Oh. Well. If you're sure…your father was asking about you."
Whit rolled the windows down, letting cold air stream over him. He was racing
down the road away from Smallville and he couldn't get out of the town fast
enough—"Yeah, Mom, I'll talk to you later, all right?" He hung up without
waiting for an answer, threw his phone on the seat and drove on for a while.
Finally he slowed, pulled over, and bumped his truck down an access road
between still unplanted fields. When he was truly in the dark, he shut off the
truck and sat in silence—the creak of the cooling engine, his breath the only
sound in the cab. The cold seeped into his bones, his gut, he got out, and lay
in the truck bed, letting the cold bite him, letting the weight of stars hold
him in place.
After a while, with cold stiff fingers he took out his phone, and called Clark.
He waited silently in the dark, tried to figure out just what he was going to
tell Clark when he answered.
"Whit? Is that you? Listen Whitney, your girlfriend talked to me yesterday. Or
threatened me, I'm still not sure which…"
"Oh fucking hell—don't pay attention to her Clark. Whatever she said ignore."
"Kind of hard, Whit—she said you were in danger of losing your scholarship.
She's worried about you, and so am I. I know about your dad…why didn't you talk
to me?"
"Oh God, oh God…look—I'll explain, okay? Don't….don't worry."
He hung up and drove back into Smallville. He turned back into town and
suddenly, it was too much—Clark, Lana, his dad—they all wanted something and he
didn't know how to divide himself to give them all what they wanted.
He turned towards the old factory district, led there by the directions on the
paper Wade gave him.
                                  [img-thing]
The noise was banging all around him; it was like wading through a semi-solid
wall of sound. Smoke and heat made the air heavier, made sweat run down his
ribs, his back. Wade and his buddies kept pushing beers at him, and he sucked
them back, one after another, until every fucking thing was too funny, and he
realized what had been missing in his life lately. Fun—fun with guys who knew
how to party, who didn't give a fuck about anything else but that, who sure as
hell didn't give damn about him or what he did or how he acted….
Wade dragged him around the loft, introducing him—which mostly consisted of
shoving his face into someone else's face—to people who weren't locals, who
didn't seem to be like anyone he knew. He watched open mouthed as a girl with a
lime wedge clenched in her teeth handed Wade a drink. She wore a shirt open to
her navel and a skirt almost that short. She passed him the lime without hands,
because one of them was cupping Wade's head, and the other one was cupping
Wade's crotch. Wade's hands disappeared under the scrap of fabric doing duty as
a skirt, and took the lime, sucked juice from her mouth and neck, and rode her
hand before pushing her along. He grinned at Whit, who could feel the stupid
blush crawl up his neck.
"It gets better," he said. He threw an arm around Whit's neck and turned him to
face the crowd. Whit could see that it did indeed get better for some people.
He blushed even harder and Wade laughed. "Come on, I want to show you
something."
Wade's lips brushed his cheek as he spoke and Whit shuddered and tried to move,
but Wade's arm was like a steel band, and he pulled him along to a room within
the loft, his buddies laughing behind them.
They pulled back a big metal door, and in the dimly lit room sat a big leather
chair. It was reclined, the foot rest up, the movable arms pointed upwards.
There was an articulated lamp hanging over it, and some equipment on a metal
tray next to the chair that after a moment he realized was for tattooing—inks,
needles…he looked at Wade. "What's this?"
The tallest of the three laughed, "Come on bro, we're going to ink you, make
you a member of the club. Make you cooler."
Wade pulled his t-shirt up, exposing a primitive looking green inked tattoo
around his navel. "You can get one here—or maybe your arm; break you in easy,
hunh?"He looked back at the tall guy and he smirked at Wade. They stared at
Whit like dogs at a steak.
He pushed back against Wade, moved away when he released him. "Unh—unh. I'm not
into tats—never wanted one."
"No, you'll like this—it's so much more, trust me." Wade snatched up a tube of
poisonously green liquid from the metal tray. "This will change your life.
Really."
Whit tried to back up, and Wade reached out and grabbed his arm in a grip so
tight it made Whit wince. "Hey—I said I don't want this," Whit snapped. "I
don't need this."
"You drank our beer, partied with us," growled the shorter of Wade's buddies.
"You owe us." Wade let him go, and the other guys grabbed Whit, slammed him
against the door. He impacted the metal with a muffled boom.
"No one's going to bother us in here. You should think twice before saying no."
Wade grinned as Whit lunged against the grip of the other two. He poked Whit in
the chest, ran a finger up under his chin, down again and circled his navel.
"You wouldn't believe what we can do. He suddenly jerked away from Whitney.
"Let him go."
"What?" The other two shouted almost in unison.
"I said let him go. Tell you what, Fordman, go on home. I'll come talk to you
tomorrow. Explain the whole sitch, and why it's a good one. Go sleep it off
tonight."
The other two glared at Wade like he'd gone suddenly and violently crazy in
front of them. He reached out and rubbed Whit's shoulder, his eyes warm and
concerned, and Whit thought that maybe he'd just imagined the snake-cold look a
minute ago. "Yeah…okay. I guess so."
"Cool."
Wade pulled the door back open, and noise and smoke and the throbbing lights
hit him hard as a punch after the dim quiet of the tattoo room. He looked over
his shoulder and Wade waved him off. "Tomorrow, Big Guy, I'll talk to you
tomorrow.
 
Whit drove away from the former factory district, turning the odd events of the
evening over in his head. The street wavered in front of him, and his stomach
did leisurely dips and dives, and all he wanted was to be next to Clark, for
Clark to be holding him, rubbing his head, kissing his face…Clark was all he
needed, all he wanted….
He drove around aimlessly and ended up at an all-night supermarket, wandering
around the aisles and drinking cup after cup of the comp coffee from the bakery
department. He found that the people who shopped in the wee hours of the
morning were either scarily strange, or too frazzled and tired to be even
remotely social. He avoided shopping carts and stopped smiling. After walking
about in a semi-daze, he ended up at the registers with boxes of condoms, some
lube, purple eye shadow, a comic book, and a couple of packs of gum. The kid at
the register eyed the assortment on the belt, and eyed Whit. He so plainly
wanted to ask ‘what the fuck?'. Whitney was asking himself the same. "Just ring
it," he muttered.
                                  [img-thing]
He stood on the lawn, and threw rocks at Clark's window and hoped like hell the
Kents didn't wake up, and that he didn't break Clark's window. He bent down to
grab another handful of rocks and his pocket beeped. He pulled himself upright,
slowly reached into his pocket and felt…his phone. He held it in his hand,
looked at it, started giggling and once he started, he couldn't stop. He called
Clark's number, giggling the whole time and kept on giggling into the phone
when Clark answered. Clark sounded pissed, and that just made him laugh, and he
dropped down on the crisp grass, laughing…a shadow fell over him. He looked up
and Clark was staring down at him and boy, did he look pissed, and yes, that
made him laugh even harder.
Clark bent, and grabbed him by the collar. "Get up. Get up, damn it."
Whit staggered to his feet, and grabbed Clark's waist. "I know what you're
thinking, and I'm not drunk—I'm just an idiot." He tried not to giggle, and
laid his head on Clark's shoulder. "I had a phone the whole time."
"What? Never mind." Clark turned to the loft, dragging Whit behind him. "You
stink like a bar. That's not funny. You're not legal."
"I'm a senior; I can do what I want, so there." He held himself back from going
nyaah-nyaah because that would be immature.
 
"Whit, you could lose your scholarship if you get caught. I know you worked too
hard for it to throw it away."
The laughter was gone, leaving an aching hole behind. He was too fucking sober
all of a sudden. He staggered along after Clark. "Hey. Stop a moment.
Clark—stop."
Clark looked back at him. "Come on. Talk to me upstairs."
***** Chapter 10 *****
 [img-thing]
Whit threw himself on the couch with a grunt and yanked the trade blanket off
the back, wrapped it around his shoulders. He looked up at Clark and tried to
smile, but Clark wasn't having it, and he gave it up.
"Okay, Whit, talk to me. You've been doing a pretty good job of hiding from
me—what's changed?” Clark looked determined and strangely, frightened.
"Man, Clark—” Whit sighed and dropped his head against the back of the couch,
closed his eyes. "My dad. My dad had a bad heart attack—but you know that.” He
rubbed his arm, feeling the bullet wound like he hadn't for some time. "Pretty
much right after the hostage thing.”
"And why didn't you call me, Whitney? I would have come to the med center. I
would have been with you—”
"Um, I don't think I could have stopped myself from clinging to you like some
big pathetic baby…. my mom would have a stroke. Probably would killed my dad
all the way…” Whit sat a little straighter. "Fuck, I'm sorry, that's not
funny…”
Clark gazed back, "Whit, I know you're a good person.”
Whit scrubbed at his face. "You know what, Clark? I don't feel like a good
person. I feel bad that I don't feel worse.”
"Everybody feels it differently; it probably just hasn't really sunk in. It
doesn't make you bad, okay? He's better, your dad?”
"Yeah…he's better.”
"And? There's something else—it's not just your dad. That's bad, but there's
more, isn't there?”
"Clark. God. I lost the scholarship. I'm not going anywhere next year—I'm not
even going to Hamilton Community. I'm going to be in the store. I'm going
nowhere.” He sighed, and went on. "I met some guys this evening…the one guy, he
got it Clark. He knows how I feel.”
"Whit, so would other people if you'd let them have the chance.” Clark
swallowed, and slowly asked, "Did something happen…between you and…this guy? Is
that it?”
"What? No, no, no—fuck no, Clark," Whit jumped up, the blanket dropping to the
floor, "There's no one but you, never will be.” Whit was shaken that Clark had
even suggested something like that. Wade was nothing like Clark, nothing at
all…he wasn't in the least bit interested in Wade....
"Why didn't you tell me? Did you tell her?”
"I don't know. Maybe. Yes. Things happen and all I can think of is be quiet and
deal. Don't worry anyone else.”
"And maybe if you act like a big enough dick, people won't give a shit what
happens to you? Sure, you lost the scholarship but it's not the end of the
world. You'll find a way, because that's the kind of guy you are. You won't lie
down and feel sorry for yourself.” Clark sat next to him, and rubbed his back.
"At least not forever…you'll pick yourself up and get back to work. You've had
such a lot put on you, Whit.”
"Clark—you deserve so much more than what you get, from me, from everyone.”
"Ahhh. I'm just happy being with you. I'm the lucky one, I am.”
Whit held him, breathed him in. Leaned against him and loved the freedom of
being able to touch him. Every part he touched met him so perfectly. Clark had
been made to fit him. Clark was a gift. "Clark— I'm going to tell my parents.
I'm not hiding anything anymore.”
Clark nodded, kissed along Whit's cheekbone and pressed a kiss against his
temple. "I know, Whit, I know.”
Whit knew Clark thought that he was drunk and talking bullshit, but he'd show
Clark he meant it. He would come out to the whole damn town and no one was
going to say shit about it. Whit pulled a bag from his jacket pocket. "I got
you this.” He handed Clark a slivery case of three shades of violet eye shadow,
and a pack of gum, and crumpled the bag shut. "Um, don't look in the bag.”
Clark jerked a little at the sight of the gum. "Oh. Thanks, thanks. So…gum?”
"Well, I picked up the shadow, and then I thought, I don't know…chocolates. But
gum seemed less.” Whit shrugged. "Thing.”
"Wow, you're even harder to understand than usual.” Clark looked over the
shadow and gum and said, "So this is like the stupid version of flowers and
‘I'm sorry'?”
Whit glanced quickly at Clark. "No! Yes, god, okay. This is the Whitney Fordman
version of please forgive me for being an asshole. It's just—I don't know.
Maybe you can help teach me how to ask for help. I just…I don't know how to
apologize for being a dick, so I buy people things…but for you, it's
different.” He smiled at Clark.
"It's okay; you're getting better at it. I like your choice…I think,” Clark
said.
Whit laughed a little. "I know. Stupid. But…it's like there's this thing that
only you and I know, this really private thing. No one else would buy you
that,” and he pressed the compact on Clark's palm. "No one else knows but you
and me. Not even Chloe…”
Clark blushed and shook his head. "No, it is private, just us…would you like to
see how it looks?”
"I… it's late, I really should be going home…there's so much to do, we both
have to get up early and I'm not going to be in very good shape...” His mouth
was saying all the right things but Clark was obviously reading his eyes,
because he just smiled and walked over to the desk.
 
"Ah, okay then…” Whit leaned against the couch back. He watched as Clark set
the mirror up, took the makeup from its hiding place. He turned on the light
there, and began to apply his makeup. Clark murmured as he worked, "I usually
like to clean my face first, so it goes on smoother, but…” he shrugged, and
stared at himself appraisingly, looking this way and that, as he applied
shadow, and blush. Clark seemed to barely notice Whit watching, he was gone
into a private, quiet place of his own.
After a bit, Clark turned to him, tilted his head and Whit inhaled.
"You look incredible. You look amazing.”
Clark smiled at him, and then said, "Wait.”
He turned to the back corner of his loft space, and took a folded pile of
shimmery material from a box in the bookcase. He kept his back to Whit, and
undressed, matter of factly, as if he alone, about to shower.
Whit shifted on the couch—he felt a stab of guilt. He should be home, he should
be with his mom at the med center, should be checking on his dad…but Clark was
moving, lamplight highlighting his shifting muscles, the way his ass flexed and
smoothed with movement, turning body hair to a gold halo…Whit swallowed, licked
his lips, eyes on Clark. He was so fucking hard…
Clark shook the material out in his hand; it flowed into a fall of glimmering
red. He pulled it over himself, and Whit sighed in disappointment. Clark was
covered by a red robe, gold and black butterflies soared over it, it swept from
his shoulders to the middle of his calves, and Whit had to admit, if he
couldn't see naked Clark, this was almost as good….
Clark turned to face him, and his cheeks were red, flushed with embarrassment.
"I don't wear this thing. Chloe bought it as a joke one year—but it just seemed
like a good time to put it on.” He smoothed the material down his chest, and
rested his hands on the fabric belt. "Um, the purple and red are not the best
combination,” he smiled, and Whit groaned.
"Clark, shut up and come over here—please.”
Clark nodded and walked over to stand in front of Whit. Whit stared up at him,
and he imagined the smile on his face probably looked goofy, and he didn't
care. This was his Clark, and he looked incredible, like an angel, so
beautiful. Whit hands floated over the warm, slick silk.
Clark hesitated and then undid the belt; let it drop to the floor. The robe
swung open and Whit inhaled. "You…” He reached out and splayed his fingers
across Clark's belly, drew his hand down to the base of his dick. He looked up.
Clark's head was tipped back, and his dick moved under Whit's fingers, his hips
moved. Whit leaned closer and kissed the dark coarse trail that grew upwards to
his navel.
Clark gasped. "Whit, Whit…”
"I really love you,” Whit whispered.
Clark stopped moving, and dropped his head to meet Whit's eyes. Cradled Whit's
head in his big warm hands, and Whit was stunned at the look in Clark's
eyes—love, it had to be love. Clark slipped to the floor, knelt on the blanket.
He rested his hand over the bulge pressing against Whit's fly; he pulled the
zipper down, with a look of intense concentration. Slow precise movements
brought down pants, boxers, Whit lifted to help. Clark smiled, his hands
drifted up and down Whit's thighs, over his dick with butterfly light touches
until Whit grabbed them, said, "I'll beg if you want me to, but I'd really like
it if you blew me.”
"Gosh, Whitney, could you be more romantic? I'm just about overcome here.”
Clark laughed quietly.
"God, shut the fuck up will you!” Whit laughed. "What do you want to me to say—
you sultry goddess, worship me with your wine red lips…”
Clark looked up at Whit opened-mouthed.
"What?" Whit huffed. "I read some poetry from time to time.”
"No, I think you were traumatized by poetry at some point in your life.
Therapy. That's all I'm saying...”
Whit snorted and grabbed the back of Clark's head, meaning to push him back
down, but when his fingers slipped into the mass of Clark's hair, soft, thick
and warm, he found himself stroking. "Ah…Clark…”
"Sultry…geez, Whit.” Clark snorted but since he was inches from his dick it
just sent lovely gusts of warmth over him. Clark bent, kissed the tip of Whit's
dick, teased his tongue along the length, slid the head into his mouth. Whit
moaned, quietly as he could, watching as Clark circled the head of his dick
with his fingers, tongued between fingers and the shaft, and took it as deep
into his throat as he could, stopped to breathe with his hands resting on
Whitney's thighs.
Whitney pushed up into Clark's mouth, his breath whistling through clenched
teeth. He was trying not to make a sound, but he was helpless to hold back a
gasp every time the head of his dick rubbed soft places inside, wet rolled down
his shaft, and Clark chased it, licked it from his shaft, his balls...
The robe was spread around him on the floor and it looked like Clark was
kneeling under a fall of scarlet petals. Poetry, he wanted to laugh, but it
trailed from his lips in a moan. Clark lifted his head and the sight almost
sent Whit over the edge—long black lashes swept pink flushed cheeks, serene,
angelic— Whit's eyes jerked away, settled on Clark's mouth, bruise colored
mouth, his swollen lips, wet and eager, stretched around his dick—so beautiful,
so dirty—so fucking hot—but what made Whit shiver was the sight of Clark's big,
big hands spread on Whit's thighs, his long fingers wrapped first around his
dick and then moving back to dig into the muscles of his thighs, wrapping
around the backs of Whit's legs and lifting him to his mouth. Whit looked down,
watched the play of tendons over the back of Clark's huge hands, and came so
suddenly and so hard, it startled a shout from him. He moaned, shaking and
spurting down Clark's throat, begging him to touch him, squeeze him, hurt him….
 
"Fuck Clark—I think I have a thing for your hands,” he gasped when he could
speak again.
Clark jerked, and whisked his hands away, and Whitney grabbed them, kissed
them, kissed the knuckles, bit lightly at his fingertips. He whispered. "Big
hands. I love your hands. I feel like you're holding all of me, when you touch
me.” He sighed. "It's nice to feel safe sometimes, Clark.”
"Whitney.” Clark grabbed him, and hugged him hard. "Whit…”
Whitney pulled Clark to his feet and then he kicked off boots and socks,
stripped off the rest of his clothing carelessly, doing a little bump and grind
when Clark laughed at his eagerness. He pulled the butterfly robe off of Clark,
threw it over the back of the couch. "You now?”
He loved the jerk, swell of Clark's dick under his palm. He kissed him,
smoothed the foreskin over the head, pulled it gently between his fingers, he
teased it, rolling the loose skin, slipping his finger in and over the head,
smooth as a plum, dark, and weeping, spilling precome, Whit caught the gushing
liquid in his palm, rubbing it back over Clark's shaft. "Wow, you really get
wet, are all uncut guys like this?”
Clark froze and shivered. "How would I know,” he gasped, "I don't know—”
"Okay, just wondering…shhh. Relax. It's kind of sexy.” He tipped his palm to
his face, and took a tentative lick, and thought that it tasted vaguely of
ocean, and oranges. He pushed Clark back, spread all over him and grabbed his
shoulders. "Kiss me,” he demanded. He sucked the last of the gloss from Clark's
mouth, the faint taste of his come from his tongue…he slid against Clark. "Fuck
me,” he commanded.
"Yes, yes…” Clark shuddered all over, held Whit hard against him and thrust and
thrust. They slid on the silk, sweat and precome dampening and spotting the
fabric. Clark wrapped his arms around Whit's neck, and moaned into his ear,
"Harder, God, harder….” and pushed, his dick left slick hot trails against
Whit's skin, his ass tightened under Whit's grip and then he was sobbing,
jerking, come flooding between them like a hot wave.
"Whit—Whit…”
"Clark. Hold me, tight, tighter…” Clark's hands clamped around him, held on
tight, and on the edge of pain, Whit came again.
                                  [img-thing]
Whit sat through classes, turned in work. He slept through lunch, drooling on
the wadded up lump of his jacket. He listened as people talked to him, nodded
in the right places.
He had no idea what happened or what anyone said the entire time.
He was a million miles away. Thinking, about Clark—about Wade. About where he
went from this point, and what he could do. He thought about his place in the
world, from school to the store, it was all he could think of. He looked around
his dad's store, empty, dead and locked, and realized if he went through with
his plan—if he told his parents the truth, not even the store was a given. He
stood on the edge of maybe losing every damn thing, even stuff he never wanted.
He twirled the store keys in his hand, flipped the ring around to send the keys
slapping against his palm.
Wade…Wade seemed to have found something. Something exciting. He shook his
head. Dangerous.
As he was thinking that, the doors rattled and banged in their frames. He
jogged over and outside in the dark, Wade and the other two were grinning at
him, pounding on the glass. Dicks. He let them in, Wade slapping him on the
shoulder as he sauntered past. They lounged on the benches set up in the front
of the store; one of the assholes lit up and snickered when Whit cursed.
"Don't fucking get comfortable, and don't get ashes on anything, you jerk-off,”
he told the little guy—the one with the real short fuse. Whit turned his
attention to Wade. "I'm not joining whatever it is you are. Don't even tell me
anything—I don't want to know.”
The short guy took a step forward, his face twisted into a ferocious scowl and
murder in his eyes, but Wade grabbed the back of his hoodie and yanked him to a
stop. He shook his head. "I gotta tell you, Big Guy, I'm sorry to hear that.
Real sorry.”
Whit came out from behind the counter, put his back against it. He glared at
them. Life had been kicking his ass lately and he was ready to kick some
back—it might as well be these guys. A small sane voice at the back of his head
said, ‘asshole, these guys are gonna kill you.'
The tallest guy was furious, and grabbed Wade's arm. "Come on man, we don't
have time for this. Take care of him and let's go.” Wade pushed him off and
shoved him backwards toward the doors.
"Gimme five minutes to talk to him, and we're done here. This is my call—go.”
The two were used to obeying Wade, and they slouched back to the doors. Wade
asked Whit, "Why not come with us? What the fuck are you going to do here?
We're giving you a chance to be part of something fucking amazing. Come on. Be
with us.” His eyes seemed almost pleading, but his mouth was turned up in a
sneer. "Or is it you're afraid?”
It was quiet as a tomb in the store—and they all jerked when the door rattled
again. Whit grabbed the keys hanging at his side and cursed. He'd forgotten to
lock the doors…fuck, must be a customer, he thought and made a move forward and
Clark flung the door wide, walked past the men standing at the door way without
a look and stopped in front of Whit.
"Hey. Thought I'd walk you home.” He turned then and slowly eyed each of the
men behind him. Clark drew himself up straight, shoulders back, planted his
feet wide and Whit realized just how huge Clark was.
"Who's this, Whit? Friends of yours?”
"This is Wade, and some unimportant assholes,” Whit replied, and Wade laughed.
Clark shifted slightly until he was pressed against Whit's side, the heat he
gave off made Whit hyper aware of him. He glanced at Clark…sweat was beading at
his hairline and his brow was creased, the way it got when he was in pain. Whit
figured he was getting a headache, but he turned to glance at him and wasn't so
sure. Clark's eyes were bloody red; the irises looked gold instead of green.
His nostrils flared, and the corner of his mouth lifted when Wade and his crew
took a step away. Whit was amazed…and maybe a little nervous. His Clark was
huge and scary.
He leaned a little into Clark and shook his head. "Wade, I'm not afraid. It's
just that I finally realized I have something great here. I might be the only
one who thinks so, but I don't care.” He jerked his chin up. "I think maybe
it's enough to make all this worth it.”
He glanced at Clark and Clark raised his eyebrow. ‘maybe?'
Wade reached out, snatched a handful of Whit's shirt. "It better be worth it.
It better make you god damn happy.”
Clark growled, a low rumble of sound that rippled right through Whit, and made
him a little hard. Jesus, he didn't know Clark could make a sound like that….
Wade was already backing off, hands up and a sardonic grin on his face. "It
better be worth it,” he repeated, his eyes on Clark. "Okay. Leaving—there's a
job waiting for us in Granville. I'll stop in on the way back, yeah?”
Whitney inhaled, deep and sharp, and Clark growled again, "I don't think Whit
wants you to,” he said, his voice rumbling through the air. He stepped in front
of Whit and folded his arms, and Whit tried not to smile.
Wade nodded and turned, headed for the door. "I am coming back. I'm not giving
up that easy.”
Whit blushed. "I got that impression. But I wouldn't suggest you do that.”
Clark grabbed the keys from Whit, walked to the doors, and opened them,
pointedly waiting, glaring at Wade. Wade winked at him and walked away.
 
As soon as the door was locked, Whit sagged against the counter. "Shit—I
thought I was going to get the shit kicked out of me—Clark. What the fuck
happened to you, dude?”
Clark was still bristling. He crowded Whit against the counter, was almost on
top of him. "He wanted you.”
"They all wanted me to join their weird little club—”
"No, he wanted you—so much, I could taste it on the air—” Whit hissed, he was
being pushed painfully hard against the counter. "He wanted to take you from
me—” Clark's voice still held the growl; he was pushing Whit's legs
uncomfortably far apart, grinding his back into the counter. Clark pushed up
hard, driving a hard-on like steel against his own, grinding and humping
against him, hands clawed around Whit's hips, pulling Whit's legs around his
waist…Whit's back was on fire from being shoved against the edge of the
counter, he'd be one massive bruise in the morning.
Clark's mouth was pressed hard into Whit's neck and in between stinging kisses,
Clark was panting so hard, it was all Whit could hear, felt the pounding beat
of his heart against his chest, his dick throb every time Clark jabbed his hips
into his, and then Clark froze against him, gasped once, twice and through the
layers of clothes between them, Whit could feel his dick jerk, and heat flood
against him.
Clark lay on him, shaking and panting for breath—and suddenly leaped upright,
his eyes clear green, wide and shocked. He was apologetic, horrified, babbled
wildly, "Whit—I' m so sorry! I don't know—I can't believe I did that to
you—oh.” He seemed to suddenly realize the position he had Whit in and blushed
dark red, let Whit off the counter. Whit touched his neck gingerly, felt it
stinging and frowned at Clark, who dropped his head, and bit his lip. Whit
suspected he did it to keep from smiling….
Fuck, he was going to be one massive bruise tomorrow, he thought. Clark—god
damn, what had gotten into Clark? He'd tried to protect him, had been so
aggressive, had been ready to…it looked like he'd been ready to kill for him,
then practically marked him like a dog…bit him and humped him and came on him,
and…and Whit kind of liked it…oh God. For any moment ever that he'd complained
he was bored, he was heartily sorry….
                                  [img-thing]
"Oooh, I'm sorry,” Clark whispered when he caught up with Whit the next
morning.
Whit slammed his locker shut, rolled his eyes. "No, you're not, no matter how
many times you say it, I know you're not.” He yanked his collar up higher.
"Does it show?”
Clark dropped his eyes and shook his head a little. "Liar,” Whit said. The
hallway began to fill with other students, and they didn't say anything else.
They walked on in silence for a bit, Whit sneaking looks at Clark as they
walked. It was weird, he'd always thought of Clark as kind of delicate and
needing to be protected, no matter that he was taller and wider…and not because
he did what he did, either. He knew that the make-up didn't make Clark a girl.
Thank God. He'd just always felt…in charge between the two of them. That Clark
depended on him. But last night…he glanced over again, and Clark was staring at
him, blushed when Whit caught him. Whit thought he wasn't the only one
wondering what it all meant. He pulled his collar up higher, and Clark opened
his mouth—"One word, Kent, swear to God, and I'm kicking your ass down the
stairs.”
"I wasn't going to apologize again! But I am—”
They were on the stairs to the cafeteria and Whit sat, yanked Clark down too.
Clark slid down a step below, Whit leaned over and whispered harshly, "Say it,
and I promise I'll make you so sorry you won't be able to walk straight.”
Clark's eyes dropped shut, he shivered from head to toe and Whit felt a stab of
arousal. "Okay,” Clark said. He peeked at Whit and grinned. "You look hot with
that on your neck.”
Whit buttoned his shirt collar.
Clark flashed a smile, lightening quick. He folded his hands together, elbows
resting on his knees. "I was thinking about you telling your dad about the
scholarship. He's going to be really pissed off, isn't he?”
Whit shrugged. "He'll get over it, eventually. I just have to have something to
give him, let him know I've got a game plan for the future.”
Clark nodded. "Good. So, what's the plan?”
"Fuck, I don't know. Besides, he'll be so freaked about the fact I'm gay, he
might not even worry about the scholarship.”
"Are sure you don't want me with when you talk to your dad?” Clark asked. "It
might go easier…”
"And it might make him go ballistic; I keep telling you my folks aren't
anything like yours. I know it's hard to believe, Beaver, but not every fucking
body's like Ward and June.”
Clark sighed and leaned back a bit against Whit's knee and pressed before
moving. "I'm going to ignore the fact that you're a crabby bitch because I know
you don't mean it.” He smiled sweetly at Whit, and Whit was torn between
wanting to close his eyes, and wanting to throw Clark down on the stairs and
kiss the hell out of him—which Clark knew, the bastard. "Clark, whatever—I
can't have you talking to my parents. They'll say something nasty, and I won't
be able to stand it, and it'll just be a big fight.”
Clark scowled, obviously not in agreement with him, but Whit didn't say a word.
He knew how stubborn Clark could be. There wasn't much point in arguing with
him when he got that certain look on his face, when his eyes went dark and
clouded, and his lower lip poked out a little, like a kid's…he wished he could
lean over and bite that lip, suck that lip, that neck…
"Earth to Whitney—hello?”
"Oh, Chloe, I didn't see you standing there.” Whit blushed, and Clark snorted.
Chloe grinned down at him and shifted the armload of note pads she was
carrying. "You wouldn't have seen a herd of mastodons standing here. But you
saw every little bump and wrinkle on Clark's neck, didn't you?”
Both Whit and Clark blushed a little and Clark glanced quickly, nervously,
around, but Whit just smiled. "Yeah, well….”
"So, who's coming to the Torch with me right now, first stopping at the office
to get my supplies?”
"You're forming your own little press gang, aren't you?” Clark said as he
stood, and pulled Whit to his feet.
"Something like that,” she grinned.
                                  [img-thing]
Whit sat on the table and read past copies of the paper, and Clark hung over
Chloe's shoulder, both of them deep in discussion about the string of robberies
that had recently plagued their corner of Kansas.
Clark reached over Chloe's shoulder and scrolled to the bottom of the screen.
"See that? A few weeks after the robbery in Metropolis, there was the one at
the Savings and Loan, and then last night, there was a bank robbery in
Granville.”
Whit dropped the paper and looked up. "Granville?”
"Yeah, there was one just like it in Midvale before the one in Smallville and
there were a couple of small jobs, gas stations and stuff, leading right back
to Metropolis…there's practically a direct line from Metropolis to
Granville—whoa!” Chloe stopped, whistled and shook her head.
"What?”
"Talk about instant karma—the robbers never got out of Granville—or they
did—right outside of Granville, they were in a car crash. Hunh…there was a
fire…three bodies recovered. No ID on them yet. Wow.”
Whit felt strange, like he'd avoided something—or missed something. He almost
told Chloe that he knew who'd been killed that night, but stopped himself. What
good would it do?
He shivered…what if he'd gone? What if Wade had talked him into going with
them? He'd be dead now if he hadn't picked Clark over them. He licked suddenly
dry lips. Clark—Clark kind of saved his life. Shit, he'd definitely saved his
life.
Chloe scribbled notes, silent for a while and then said, "Busy night for the
firemen. There was a gas explosion in those rehabbed lofts down in the old
factory district. No one was hurt, thankfully but one section of those lofts
was leveled. Damn. You know, it almost sounds like WOW stuff.”
Clark glanced at Whit, and quickly looked away. He laughed, a weird, high,
snort. "Chloe, not everything is The Men In Black. Sometimes a fire is just a
fire.”
Chloe huffed and shut down the computer. "You'll see someday, Clark.” She
smiled. "I think I'm getting closer to finding a source for some of the
weirdness here.”
Whit looked over and Clark was staring at him with a solemn expression—he broke
into a smile when he caught Whit looking back. "I'm glad you're mine,” he said.
Whit flushed, he couldn't help but smile back. "Me too.”
"Are you guys going to kiss now? Can I take a picture? There's this website,
‘BoyKissing' and…”
"Shut up!”
                                  [img-thing]
Whit leaned on the fence that lined the long driveway to his house, noticing
for what felt like the first time this season that the trees lining the drive
had new growth already—tiny lime green leaves tipped the ends of branches,
brown grass gave way here and there to green.
At the end of the wide, long lawn squatted his house—white and black—the white
portico, the black shutters at the windows, all just the same as it'd always
been, evergreens and gardens bordering the front, leading to the big black door
to the inside.
The garden was scruffy, still full of winter killed plants and dried leaves but
of course his mom had had no chance to get to her gardens yet, they all pretty
busy now that his dad was finally home… Whit frowned a little. He trudged up
the driveway with no enthusiasm at all. He wasn't at all eager to rush into
what he had to do. But that whole thing with Wade, and Clark—an electric shock
flashed through him, made his heart skip a beat—after what Clark did, he had to
let his folks know. He was tired of hiding everywhere, hiding everything. Hell,
he had to tell them about the scholarship—he might as well tell them about
being gay, too. Maybe they'd be so freaked about the scholarship being gay
would kind of seem not as bad…he laughed. Right. He dragged his hand down the
fence rail as he walked down the drive, paint flaking away under his palm.
House needed some maintenance work, for sure. He trudged up to the portico,
stopped at one of the pillars. He scraped off a wide flake of peeling paint,
hesitated and finally, went in.
The living room was dim, the heavy drapes pulled against the afternoon light.
His dad was on the recliner in the living room, his mother by his side. They
both looked up when Whit stepped into the room. He clenched and unclenched his
fists; he had to wait a moment, suck air into lungs that felt flattened by the
weight of their gazes.
"Mom, Dad…I have to speak to you.”
They looked at him, waiting, expectant… "I…lost the scholarship.” He waited for
the world to explode.
"Jesus Whitney. What the hell—how could you screw up like that? I told you.”
His dad glared at him, glared at his mother. "I told you that he couldn't carry
it through. What happened?”
Whit stared at his dad. "Well. I tried to keep the store running and tried to
help mom—”
His dad made an impatient dismissive motion. "I hired competent people. You
didn't need to do what you did. I never told you to do that.”
"Yes sir. You're right.” Whit stared at his feet and wondered if the slam of
his heart in his chest was visible. His hand drifted up and rested over his
breastbone, he pressed the heel of his hand against it. "You never told me, but
I thought if I could help you…”
"Help me?” His dad snorted. He got to his feet and turned to Whitney. "Now
what? What the bloody hell are you going to do?”
His mother reached out for his dad's hand, said. "Calm down, George, it'll be
fine, it'll all work out. Oh Whitney. How disappointing for you, and for Lana,
poor thing…but you'll work it out. I know you will.”
"Yeah, about that. Lana and I aren't exactly a… real couple anymore.”
"What could you possibly mean, dear? You're so close, she's a wonderful girl—”
"What happened? What did you do?” his dad demanded. "How could you possibly
screw that up?”
"I'm gay.” There, he said it. And his heart was pounding, his ears ringing…he
sucked in a deep breath, and his dad came toward him and it wasn't until after
his head banged painfully against the floor he realized his dad had hit him.
His dad had never hit him before—never so much as a tap. Whit stared up at him
in shock, shock that was mirrored on his dad's face before his eyes narrowed,
and his expression was full of anger, disgust…he raised his hand again...
Whit scrambled across the floor, away from him. He swallowed and grimaced at
the taste of blood—the inside of his mouth was tender. His hand went to his
cheek, raw and stinging from the punch. He had a weird sensation, a dual
feeling of despair, and…a wild urge to laugh. "Are you serious?” He could
barely believe his dad hit him, his dad punched him— Whit looked past him to
his mom. "Mom—?”
She was silent, hadn't said anything since she'd screamed when he hit the
floor. She was white as a ghost, her fingers knotted in her sweater—but she
didn't move from the couch, or help him up from the floor. Her face reflected
only fear. Her hand slowly lowered, and she fell back into her role, her voice
was nearly calm when she spoke.
"Whitney, you're not serious. You don't mean it.” She looked right through him
as she spoke and he found himself shaking his head no. No. He got to his feet
and wiped his mouth. He wanted to spit the blood on the floor, on the beige
carpet, the beige sofa…
His dad backed away. "Get out of my sight.”
His knees wobbled, his head was still ringing, felt like he was burning up and
he held the wall to keep upright. "Do you want me to leave?”
"No, no—Whitney. Go to your room,” his mom said, and his dad opened his
mouth—shut it. He turned away from Whit.
"Just—just—get upstairs, I can't stand to look at you now. We'll figure this
out later.”
Whit ran up the stairs and threw himself on the bed. He grabbed the pillow,
shoved it against his face and screamed until he thought he'd pass out.
What was going to happen to him now? Whit threw the pillow across the room,
rolled upright again. It didn't matter. Clark was worth it. Whatever happened
next, he'd make it work for him, somehow. He eyed the door, and flipped his
middle finger up. He pulled up the window, straddled the sill and eyed the tree
that grew outside his window. Figured he could make it. He slid his other leg
over, took a deep breath—and jumped.
                                  [img-thing]
I'm walking, I've been walking forever, can't remember anything else but
desert, walking in the desert…there's red sand everywhere, in every direction
for miles, and a red sun sets the sky on fire. Sweating…it runs down my body,
every crease and fold on my body is slick slimy with it. Sweat drips into my
mouth, coppery salt and bitter and oh my God, I want water more than I've ever
wanted anything. Suddenly I notice that there's a road up ahead, an ordinary
two lane blacktop striped by a yellow line, so normal it's scary and there's a
coyote sitting on the edge, watching me stagger closer. It licks thin black
lips and smiles. "Go on ahead boy, I'm waiting for a friend of yours,” It says.
Okay, that should have—something—shocked me, scared me, at least made me
laugh—but it's just one more thing on the road….
I keep walking, after a while, I turn around. Coyote's still sitting there, and
watching me. I think It winks at me. I stumble on the sand, and strong hands
catch me, soft and warm, they hold me upright.
"Kal, you're going to have to get over this.” Love is looking at me, beautiful,
Mine. "I miss you so much, why won't you stay with me?” I ask, and my heart is
breaking, I need him, oh, like breathing. We're stopped now and looking over a
wide expanse of ice flecked tundra, a breeze bending long grasses and making
them sing. Far off, the pink sun is rising, clouds go gold and bronze and I
know this is home. The Boy throws his arm around me, and leans his round warm
cheek against mine and I see he hasn't aged at all, he's still a boy with a
boy's smile and the clearest ocean-green eyes. The Boy says, be prepared, it's
going to hurt, and gives me something that's warm on my palm, maybe metal,
maybe plastic and it's humming, buzzing… "It's yours Kal”…it's buzzing, louder,
louder, and I'm getting scared…
 
A loud and persistent buzzing penetrated his sleep. Barely awake, Clark reached
out, slapped the alarm clock to the floor. It skidded under his bed and was
still ringing and finally he managed to wake enough to realize that it was the
phone, not the clock. He fumbled it to his ear, still half asleep.‘Lex must
have gotten his number from—okay…what?' The world wasn't fitting right for a
moment, and then a voice he knew broke through his confused fog. "Clark, I need
a ride.”
Clark blinked and blinked. Awake now, he was in bed at home and— what time was
it? Who was on the phone—? "Whit! You need a ride. Oh…sure. Give me a few
minutes. It's kind of late, isn't it?” He rolled out of bed and grabbed his
jeans from the floor, and wiggled into them. "What time is it?” He swirled his
hand around under his bed, and pulled out a pair of sneakers, swept his wallet
off the night stand and into his pocket.
"I don't know—” the line was silent and then, "It's twelve.”
"Twelve!” Clark pulled a sweatshirt over his head. "Your folks…how did the talk
go? You never called and…”
"Um, well, you're picking me up downtown, not at home—what does that tell you?”
Clark thought he heard a sniff. "Tells me it went really not well. Are you
okay?”
"Yeah, I'll tell you all when you come. I'm at the Value Mart. Hurry up; some
guy from Deliverance is checking me out.”
                                  [img-thing]
Clark pulled into the lot and saw Whit leaning against the wall of the Value
Mart. Clark grinned a little. He was sure Whit had no idea what he looked like;
one foot up, leaning against the bricks, thumbs tucked into his pockets and his
jacket slid back over his shoulders…a hot shiver grew low in his gut, he wanted
to pick Whit up and run away with him and do...things to him. Good things.
"God, you're a perv." Clark muttered to himself. "Your boyfriend's more than
likely in deep shit, and all you can think about is…god." He jumped out of the
truck and jogged towards Whit, his ears burning.
"Whit, hey, how—man, what the hell happened to you?” Clark fought his instinct
to grab Whit, hug him and check him out all over. A purple bruise almost
covered one cheek, and he was covered with scratches. He looked like he'd been
thrown into a bag of cats and rolled down hill. He limped toward Clark, his
hand clutching one leg. His jacket was shoved back because the collar was
ripped almost through. Clark gasped. "Oh fuck—did you get jumped here? Did you
call the police—” He was already reaching for his phone when Whit stopped him.
"No—no—my dad sucker punched me.”
Shock froze Clark in place. He gaped at Whit. "Oh my God—does he—does he do
things like that?” Clark straightened. "Because we can go right over there and
show him why he shouldn't hit my boyfriend…”
Whit smacked him in the chest. "Stop it; you're doing it again, treating me
like a girl. No, he doesn't hit me—well, before today, he's never hit me.”
Clark rubbed his chest and frowned. "What happened than, why are you
limping—did he try to break your leg, too?”
Whit stopped and blushed bright red. "Well, I wanted to leave, get out of the
house, but they, unh…they locked me in my room…more or less. Sort of.”
Clark tilted his head, staring at Whit. "…they sent you to your room, without
any supper…”
"Stop, you asshole, it's really not funny.” Whit's eyes shimmered, and Clark
felt like ten kinds of asshole, and led him into the truck.
"Get in. I'm sorry. I'm a jerk. Oh gosh—A huge fucking jerk,” Clark cried out
when tears rolled down Whit's cheeks.
"Gaah—shit, sorry, sorry. I guess I am a girl,” Whit muttered. He scrubbed hard
at his face and told Clark what happened from the moment he entered the house,
to the moment when he opened the window—"And it seemed like a good idea at the
time,” he sighed.
"What the hell—did you think you were Peter Pan? You're so damn lucky you
didn't break every bone in your body.”
He was leaning against the window, chewing on his thumb, and looked at Clark,
and Clark had to drag his own eyes away from the brilliant blue looking deep
into him.
"Aaah, does it count if I broke every branch on the way down?" Whit winced,
reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a twig, dried leaf still clinging
to it. "Here.”
Clark glanced at the twig, glanced at Whit, and huffed. Bit his lip. Whit's
lips trembled, than Clark's and in the next moment, both of them were howling,
Whit describing again looking up at his dad from the floor—for some reason now,
hysterically funny. They hung off each other, cursing each other, cursing
Whit's dad, laughing until tears ran, until they cried….
Clark drove them out to the Smallville sign, because Whit didn't want to deal
with parents yet, and Clark said he was fine with that. Whit could feel waves
of possessive protection rolling off of Clark, and he was okay with that,
needed it, just for a bit.
Clark pulled off and back into the fields, out of sight of the road. They sat
in the bed of Clark's dad's truck, Whit leaned against the tool box, and Clark
sat between his knees, looking up at the stars. "Okay,” Clark said, "Okay, now
we have to come up with a plan. Because you can't go back there, right? It's
not like he knocked the gay out and now, everything's okay.”
Whit shook his head. "No, you're right. I know my dad. He's not going to let me
ever forget I screwed up, and he's not going to let the fact I'm gay alone. If
I stay there, he'll…he'll…well, I don't know, but it'll be bad.”
"He's not going to hit you again, damn it—”
"He's not going to hit me again. He doesn't do things like that.” He pulled
Clark to his chest, and rested his chin on his shoulder. "He didn't mean to. It
was just—a shock, on top of more shocks. He had a heart attack, Clark. He must
be as freaked out and as scared as I am. I guess. I'm… he loves me.” He shifted
and Clark pulled his arms around his waist, laced their fingers together. "My
mom tells me all the time.”
"Yeah.” Clark sighed. "Okay, listen. I'm thinking, this is what we should
do—I'll talk to my folks. You're going to stay with us. No, wait;” he said when
Whit wanted to protest. "There's not much of the school year left, you're going
to be eighteen real soon, and then they can't say anything about what you do.
You move in with us, my parents will talk to your parents and everything will
be fine. We can be together, my parents love you, and it'll be so good,
Whitney. I know with my help, and Chloe's, you can get back on track grade
wise—and go to Hamilton community, and maybe get loans and go to Kansas or MetU
in two years. And after I graduate, we can move in together in Metropolis—I can
get a job or—”
"Clark, I think we better handle one thing at a time. It would be great though,
us on our own, nobody interfering…” Clark smiled as Whit kissed the back of his
head.
"Really, think about it.” He leaned back into Whit's warmth and smiled. "We can
have our own place, one of those townhouses, maybe with a little garden, and a
dog—Buddy would love being a city dog—and we could go out to eat every Friday,
and on weekends do whatever we want, and it'll all be good, because it's me,
and it's you, together.”
Whit was silent for a long beat and then he said, "…ah…been thinking about it
some?” and Clark blushed.
"Okay, yes, shut up. I've given it some thought, sometimes, late at night when
I've got nothing else to think about…”
"Wow, really? I just jerk off thinking about Johnny Depp and—oof! Wow, beat up
guy here, remember?”
Clark hugged Whit's arms. "Ha. You got beat up by a tree…” and suddenly
whatever comfort they'd managed to build collapsed, and Whit felt a sinking
sensation in his chest and as usual, Clark mirrored his mood.
"Your dad hit you, Whit. Please don't go home tonight. Please stay with us,
with me?”
Whit sighed, and squeezed Clark's hand. "Okay. I guess I have to call them.
Geez, I hope my mom's the one who answers.”
                                  [img-thing]
Whit stood and hopped off the truck, walked a little way into the field. From
what Clark could see, a quiet, rapid, and as far as he could tell, horribly
strained conversation went on. Whit hung up, shoved the phone jerkily in his
pocket and walked back to Clark. Clark felt the sting of excitement. This was
the beginning of a new chapter for them, the start of something really big, he
could feel it. It felt like—flying—jumping out into space, him and Whit
together—exciting and a little scary. Since he'd been with Whit, his life
changed so drastically, from feeling lost and afraid so much of the time, to
feeling protected, loved, and loved enough that he could be brave for Whit too.
Whitney opened doors he thought had been slammed shut since he was a kid.
Whit came close again, and Clark reached out for him. He'd never thought he was
worthy of love—especially not from someone like Whit. Whit, who told him
plainly, openly, "I love you." and who was brave enough to risk everything for
him.
"You'll see, Whitney. Your life will be so different. You'll finally be able to
be just who you are. You'll never have to try and fit yourself into someone
else's idea of who you are, or worry if you're good enough for them.”
Whit leaned into him, and kissed his cheek, his mouth, his forehead, and Clark
sighed happily. "It's going to be great,” he said.
***** Chapter 11 *****
Chapter Notes
     At the end of this chapter I've included art made for this story by
     the talented and generous Digitalwave and Lapetite_Kiki
 [img-thing]
 
In the morning, Clark rose, did his chores pretty much on auto-pilot, his head
was full of Whitney, and possibilities. He made sure he was in the kitchen
before his mom was, made the batter for pancakes and had coffee ready and
waiting when she walked into the kitchen.
His mom sniffed the air as she walked into the room. "Ummm…someone has a favor
to ask…" She saw the pancake batter waiting, and leaned against the counter
next to him—looked up. "Oh-oh, someone wants a kidney."
"Ah-ha, Mom." He smiled a little, and hugged her. "Almost."
She tied an apron around her neck, and took a basket of eggs out of the fridge.
"I guess we better wait for your dad to wash up, before we get to the heart of
the matter." She grinned. "Get it?"
"Mom…"
                                  [img-thing]
Clark waited until after they'd eaten, and then told his folks what had
happened to Whitney, and why. He asked them to please let Whit stay with them,
and after considering, in a much shorter time than he'd expected, they agreed
to it.
His dad leaned forward in his seat, and pointed at Clark. "You know there are
going to be limits. You won't be sharing a room, which I'm sure comes as no
surprise. Come on, Clark," he said to Clark's look of not all together sincere
bafflement. "He'll have to sleep on the pullout, I guess…keep his stuff in the
powder room downstairs. And keep himself downstairs at night."
Clark blushed deep red, and tried to look anywhere but into his dad's eyes.
"There are other reasons for limits bedside what's running through your mind,
Clark—"
"Stop trying to embarrass him, Jonathan," his mother scolded.
"But it's fun—" His dad grinned a little sheepishly at her narrowed eyes and
scowl. "Okay, Martha, okay…seriously, son, we're very fond of Whitney, but this
is his last year, and his last chance to pull it back together. You probably
won't think you're getting in his way, but you might without meaning to. You've
got to be sure to give him space, to do what needs to be done, understand?"
His dad smiled at him, and Clark finally looked up and nodded solemnly. He got
it. He wanted Whitney to get it back together too. ‘Course his folks were nuts
if they actually thought there'd be no sex at all—they were young healthy guys;
they were supposed to think about sex twenty four-seven. It was like—a
biological mandate, he thought, and—and—
Clark's mind skittered around the edges of those thoughts and veered away. He
emphatically thought about something else. He chatted on with his parents,
figuring out sleeping arrangements and possible chores, and promised to give
his mom a grocery list of things Whit liked to eat. His dad told him he'd talk
to Mr. Fordman, that he was sure he could get him to agree. One way or another.
"Jonathan," his mom said warningly, and his dad tried to look innocent. He
winked at Clark.
"Why don't you go wake Whit up? And maybe let him know, for future reference,
what time we get up around these parts?" he said.
Clark jumped up, grinning from ear to ear. "Be back in a minute," he said, and
raced up the stair. He threw open the door to his room, and called, "Rise and
shine, Whit—breakfast time!"
Buddy jumped up, startled into barking. Clark stopped and pointed accusingly.
"So that's what happened to you, traitor. Couple of months ago, you would have
eaten him in his sleep, and now, look at you. Shame." Buddy had the good grace
to dip his head and look sheepish. "Um-hmm."
He walked up to the bed, helped unravel the flailing mound of blankets and Whit
jerked upwards, flinging the blankets aside. "What the fuck? Buddy, shut up,
you almost gave me a heart attack. And thank the fuck out of you, Clark."
"Get up, it's late." Clark pulled the sheets away from Whit and tried not to
stare at what wasn't covered by a pair of his flannel boxers, it was possible
that Whit had the best body he'd ever seen…he knew it was true even if he
hadn't seen that many. He reached out and ran his hand down Whit's sleep warm
body, Whit leaned into the touch automatically, even as he yawned and
stretched.
"Eight on a Saturday is not late. Eight is insanely early. Remember, I wasn't
born to a life of cow-poking," Whit grumbled.
"Cow-pokes are cowboys; we're dairy farmers, completely different thing…"
Whit grinned, not completely focused yet. "Yeah, I was talking about a
different kind of poking—"
Clark grabbed a pillow and smacked Whit with it. "Pervert! I have good news,
you. Mom and Dad agreed to you moving in here with us. Isn't that great?" He
threw himself backwards onto the bed, and Buddy hopped down with a disgusted
snort. Clark pushed Whit flat and rolled on top of him. "No need to thank
me—but you can kiss me if you want."
Whit smiled, a tiny ghost of the usual bright smile he got whenever Clark held
him. Clark stiffened. "What? What is it? You want me to get off?"
Whit threw his arms around Clark and held him in place. "Oh, Clark—thanks for
what you did for me. But. I have to go home. I have to try—"
"Try? Whit! Try what—ignoring what happened, who you are—hoping it gets
better?"
"Clark, calm down. I'm just saying…"
Clark broke Whit's hold and rolled to the bed. "Is it you don't want to stay in
my house? Because that's okay too, there are still guys on the team who'd let
you stay, I bet. Like Fred—"
"No, that's not it," Whit cut in. "I want to stay with you, I want to be with
you all the time, it would be wonderful, but they need me now, okay? It's
important…it's the right thing to do Clark, and you know it's true. Besides,
maybe this is what me and my dad need to get closer, you know?"
"The fact that you don't always go for the easy thing is part of the reason why
I love you…" Clark rubbed his eyes, trying not to show how disappointed he was.
"But Whit, a parent who treats his kid with such…contempt…doesn't need to use
fists on them. He's been beating you most of your life." He touched Whit's
cheek carefully. "It just didn't show before."
Whit shrugged Clark off, and slid out of bed. He searched for his clothes,
talking as he did. "You don't get it, Clark. How could you? You've got the
perfect parents. They love you no matter what. They know all about you and they
don't treat you like a–a—freak." With his back to Clark, Whit didn't see the
wounded look flicker across his face.
"Then why go back? Stay! Please." Clark hated that his voice rose, almost a
whine. He felt the beginning of a headache tighten his jaw, press behind his
eyes.
"This might be my last chance, Clark. I have to!" Whit scooped his jacket up
from the floor, looked at the torn collar and threw it back down. "This isn't
me turning you down, love. This is…trying. I'll prove to them I'm worthwhile."
He kissed Clark's cheek, pressed his lips against his temple for a long moment
before leaving.
Clark sat on his bed, stared at the closed door, before throwing a pillow at
it—hard as he could. "Shit!"
                                  [img-thing]
Clark sat in the barn, the lower half of the loft doors open, and watched his
dad and Whit get in the truck. Whit didn't look up to the loft. Clark sat
silently with Buddy on his lap, watching them drive away.
He muttered to himself, "Sure Whit, you try…let them break your heart over and
over." He bent down and rested his forehead against Buddy's wiry head. "S'okay,
Bud, we'll be here when he needs us."
                                  [img-thing]
"Oh my God!"
Clark jerked upright, and fell off of his bed, knocking his notebooks to the
ground.
He was running as soon as his feet touched the ground, slamming into the side
of his door as he dashed out of his room. He thundered down the stairs, calling
for his mom, who was still yelling, only now, she was yelling for his dad.
He ran into the kitchen the same time his dad did, both of them pale and
scared…his mom was quiet now, so pale her lips were bright red, her eyes were
enormous. She pointed at the phone, hand shaking, voice shaking when she
finally spoke. "It was the doctor's office." Tears welled up and ran down her
cheeks.
"No…what, sweetheart, what?" His dad's expression said tell me, don't tell me…
Clark watched his mother reach out to his dad and he realized she wasn't
frightened. She was…amazed, stunned….
"I'm…I'm fine. I'm pregnant. We're going to have a baby."
His dad stared open mouthed, and suddenly swayed a little, even paler than
before. "You're kidding. You've got to be kidding."
Clark felt like an elephant stepped on his chest. A baby? A baby…their baby.
His mom swung towards him, her face glowing with joy and he swallowed, rushed
forward and hugged her. "Mom, that's wonderful! We were so worried, but this is
wonderful!"
His dad was on them, and they hugged each other, they laughed, and his parents
definitely cried a little and after a bit, he managed to pull away….
He wandered out to the yard, out under the oaks near the truck shed. An old
swing hung from one of the trees there, a truck tire at the end of a dirty gray
rope, nearly rotted through from age, neglect. Near it was what used to be a
sandbox once, its wooden cover cracked through and no longer protecting the
white sand inside from the barn cats. His sandbox, his swing…maybe they'd fix
it up for the baby. Looked like his parents didn't have to settle for a freak
kid dropped on them out of the sky anymore. They were getting a real kid, at
long last. A kid that was really human, a kid that was part of them.
                                  [img-thing]
He asked for the truck, and got permission, and drove out to the Estates, where
Chloe lived. He needed his friend, the one person who most understood the mine
field of his brain.
Clark knocked at the Sullivan's door, softly, hesitantly. Now that he was on
Chloe's doorstep, he was a little afraid she might just think he was being
selfish, because he wasn't so sure himself. He raised his hand to tap again,
and the door flew open, and Chloe yelped. "Clark—you scared me—I didn't know
you were here, I was just heading out." She took a look at his face and grabbed
him by the hand, pulled him inside and bustled him down the hall and into the
kitchen, "What the hell is wrong, Clark?"
"Nothing. Everything. I don't know."
"Well, you're making as much sense as you usually do, FB." She pushed him into
a chair and patted his head like he was Buddy. "Here." She poured him juice and
ripped open a bag of cookies. "Here, take this too." She dropped some on a
plate and pushed them towards him. "Now, spill—what's eating you?"
"My mom's pregnant." He shoved a cookie in his mouth, shoved in another and
chewed like his life depended on it.
"What? Really? But that's so cool…." She wavered at his expression"...or maybe
not?"
"No Chloe, it's not. I mean, part of me is saying that it is, and that they
love me, and part of me is losing it in a really ugly way. Oh, they tell me
I'll always be the oldest beloved child, blah blah blah—I mean, what else can
they say? ‘Oh, we've got our real kid now, get out.'?" He took a gulp of juice
and frowned. "Um, do you have milk?" He nudged the empty plate her way. "And…
more cookies?"
She poured a big glass, and filled the plate with cookies again, and hugged him
as she set the plate down. "You know what you're thinking is stupid, right? You
and your parents have an incredible bond—I don't think I've ever known anyone
whose parents so obviously treasure them, Clark. You're so lucky."
He sighed. "But this is their chance to have a normal child, not like me…." He
stopped and paled—he'd spoken without thinking, what the hell was wrong with
him?
Chloe was horrified, mistaking Clark's meaning. "Oh Clark—you think they ever
think less of you because of what happened to you? No, no, never!"
Clark opened his mouth. Closed it. It was better she thought that. A little
niggling thought twisted through his head. But what if they did? Maybe they'd
always been hoping for…better. He shook his head and jammed another few cookies
in his mouth and gulped milk.
"They love you so much. You know they thought about how it might affect you and
they're probably going out of their way to reassure you, hunh? Feels weird,
right? But really Clark, they won't put the new baby before you. You'll see.
But… it'd be great if you were as excited and happy as they are, you know?"
Clark nodded. He understood. Pretend that this was the greatest thing ever,
make his parents happy.
Chloe sat down across from him and leaned her chin on her hands. "Okay now,
don't think I'm not glad to be here for you—but I'm surprised you aren't having
this heart to heart with him—what's up?"
"Oh, gosh…" Clark stared at the half empty glass of milk in his hands.
"Whitney. We don't get together very much lately, and when we do, we don't talk
a whole lot…" He blushed. "He's so busy, with school and …helping his parents."
"Ah." She looked at him, and nodded. "You guys had a fight?"
No, no, nothing like that. It's—complicated."
She took a cookie from Clark's pile and nibbled along the edge. "Complicated. I
know." She sighed. "Well, at least your news was good. I was coming to give you
some news of mine. We're…my dad and I are moving."
Clark felt betrayed, shocked speechless. Chloe nodded, and Clark wanted to kick
himself for not noticing that she was upset. "Why, Chloe? Why—?"
"The plant's closing. Most of the executives are being transferred, and they're
laying off the workers. But don't tell anyone, Clark. Not yet. My dad has hopes
that he can put them off…"
"Chloe, this is going to be a disaster for the town—and for me. I don't want to
lose you."
"Me either, but we're kind of the lucky ones, in a way—my dad has a job. Most
of the kids at school—their dads aren't going to have one."
Clark nodded. "You know, I didn't know the plant was doing that badly."
She looked thoughtful, Clark recognized her ‘isn't that weird' look… "It's not.
Dad said it's turning a profit. But…most of the research staff left about three
weeks ago. I saw a bunch of LuthorCorp cleanup trucks in the fields up by
Crater Lake right before they left…"
"Chloe—" Clark started.
"I'm just saying, there's something that connects the WOW freaks and the
meteorites, the fires, the disappearances, the plant—all of it is
interconnected, and I know I'm on the right track." She looked triumphant—and
scared.
"Look, promise me that you won't fool around with this anymore, please. The
plant closing could be related to this stuff. I know you think investigating
this stuff could be your ticket to big time journalism, but everything you've
just said leads to one thing—danger…"
"Clark," she frowned. "I'm not stupid. I've thought about consequences, you
know. I think I'm prepared if anything ever comes up. I'm pretty sure I know
who'd be the danger." She stopped talking. "So…prom? You going?"
"Terrible segue and no. Lana and Whit are going together, because if Whit and I
went together, his dad would have a heart—oh, gosh." Clark stopped and blushed.
"Anyway, we have other plans."
"Yeah, I'm sure," she answered.
"Chloe…" he sighed.
                                  [img-thing]
Days piled up and fell away so fast, Clark couldn't keep track—they blurred
into an ache of missing Whit, missing the time they spent together alone, and
seeing him every day at school just made the ache worse. Being so close but
not, made things happen to him. He thought he was going crazy sometimes. On the
way to classes there were times he felt like he stepped into some bizarre
alternate world. He'd swear there were times that he could…smell Whit, and
suddenly he'd appear, walking down the hall toward him…or he imagined he could
hear him. More than once he'd spend an entire wasted class achingly hard
because he imagined he heard Whit somewhere, panting, gasping…he was afraid to
ask Whit if it affected him as well, this separation. He was working so hard to
make up for everything. The hours he didn't spend studying were spent working
at his dad's store, or doing repair work on his parent's house….
He begged Clark to understand. "I have to fill up every minute so I don't go
crazy from missing you."
Every few days Clark asked him again, ‘move in with us, come home with me.'
Every time Whit turned him down.
"They depend on me. I have to help them. I can prove to him that it doesn't
matter; I'm still the same and then—then we can talk about it."
Clark wanted to say, "how many conversations have you had, how many questions
have they asked, do they want to talk to me? Have you mentioned that we're more
than friends?" but it was just one more thing he never voiced, why make Whit's
life more complicated than it already was?
                                  [img-thing]
It was a little warmer than usual for an early spring day, just the right sort
of day for a drive…and if he just happened to drive in this particular
direction, well that was coincidence, Clark told himself. At the end of the
block, the white house gleamed in the afternoon sun, and even from his
distance, Clark could see the gardens were freshly turned and weeded. Half of
the fence lining the lawn shone as brightly as new snow—it was obvious that
Whit had been very busy the last few weeks. And speaking of Whit....
Clark slowed, pulled to a stop a few feet from the corner of the Fordman
property, and watched Whit scrape scaling paint from the post and rail fence.
He had big stripes of white across the front of the worn Crows sweatshirt he
was wearing, and it made Clark chuckle. Looked like someone leaned on the fence
before it dried. Whit was staring down into the open two gallon bucket of white
paint at his feet, whipping a paint stirrer through it. He looked completely
serious, so involved in what he was doing that he hadn't noticed yet he had
company. After a minute or two of vigorous paint stirring, he straightened and
turned, wiping at his forehead and grinned when he saw Clark in the truck. He
laid the brush down and walked over, his grin getting wider the closer he got,
and Clark felt his cheeks warm. Whenever Whit gave him his complete attention,
it made him…warm.
"Hey, what are you doing out here?"
He leaned into the truck window, and Clark brushed his fingers over Whit's
cheek. He smiled. Whit probably thought he hadn't heard the small noise he
made…"I just happened to be in the neighborhood, gosh, what a surprise to see
you here." They both grinned at the blatant lie, and Clark asked, "Can you get
away tonight? I really miss you."
Whit stared up at the house thoughtfully, and nodded. "Yeah. I think I can.
I'll meet you after work tonight. I can't wait." He looked so desperately
hungry, all the feeling Clark kept ruthlessly repressed during the week
ignited. He closed his eyes to break the spell.
"God, Clark…I want you all the time…" Whit whispered. He straightened and
slapped the roof of the truck. "Aah—beat it, before I forget all about this
fence and the neighbors and pull you right out of the truck."
Clark laughed, a little breathless with the images in his head. "Oh, now I
can't wait for later."
Driving off, he could see Whit still on the road in his rearview mirror,
watching him…he glanced at the dash clock and groaned. Too many hours to
wait...
                                  [img-thing]
He waited across the street, in the dark, until the store closed. He watched
Whit walk up the block, before he pulled out and picked him up, out of view of
the store. Of his dad. He didn't say a word when Whit got in and didn't speak.
He just buckled in, rubbed his temples, rubbed at his eyes, and quietly asked
Clark to drive. Ten minutes out of town Clark sighed and asked quietly, "How is
this better?"
Whit groaned, "Oh, please don't start. You just make it worse. Let's just have
a good time, okay?"
"Sorry." Clark said, feeling no such thing. He glanced at Whit from time to
time, and Whit resolutely stared out the window. They drove on in silence and a
mile or two outside of Granville, Clark pulled off the road and parked the
truck where it wouldn't be noticed. The dark pressed in around them, but with
Whit in the front seat with him, it felt warm, like a cocoon. The anger and
sadness of earlier melted away, and his hand came to rest on Whitney's thigh.
Whit grunted, and covered it with his own.
"Clark. I don't know what I'm doing most of the time. I feel like I'm kind of
lost…" Whit sighed, played with the radio controls and Clark remembered how it
was in the beginning, when they didn't know what to say to each other, when the
thing between them was…just between them. Whit was frowning, running through
stations over and over, muttering.
Clark reached out and covered his hand. "Don't."
Whit looked at him; his eyes were full of hurt. "You hate me, don't you? We
have so little now…maybe…maybe I did make a mistake."
Clark kissed him to silence him. He couldn't hear it. It hurt too much to hear
Whit say that, so Clark listened to him moan instead. He focused every bit of
his being on the soft, wet slide of tongue on tongue, on the little thrills
that raced down his spine when Whit moaned into his mouth. He pulled Whit's
shirt up, pulled him onto his lap, pulled his arms around him, kissed and
sucked and bit every inch of skin he could reach, Whit gasped and groaned,
ground against him—hit the steering wheel, the window—it was close in the cab,
too tight, too hot. The sound of their harsh, shuddering breath, the squeak of
leather, and groan of the springs battered his ears. Clark's heart hammered and
his blood pulsed, pounded in his veins. All he let himself feel was Whit's dick
trapped between them, throbbing against him, Whit's hands scrabbling over his
fly, ripping his pants open, cold air touching him before his dick was wrapped
in Whit's hot, calloused hand. Not enough room to move, not enough coherent
thought to make room, elbows jabbing and knees banging together and hands
pressing in all the wrong places, frantic, desperate. Whit tried to hold both
their dicks in one hand, and Clark wrapped his around too, and it almost hurt
when he jerked them off. The truck was full of the sound and smell of sex and
no one had to think about anything else but that. It was the way it always was
any more, hot, frustrating, infuriating and so fucking full of wanting more
that in minutes he was screaming into Whit's skin as he came, and afterward,
limp and useless and a million miles away.
Whit was soaking wet, he could barely raise his head. He was curled into
Clark's shoulder, looking down at the thumb shaped bruises on his hips. He
touched them softly, his expression was so private Clark didn't speak, didn't
move. He'd stopped apologizing for marking him, not really doing it on purpose,
not really…
"I have to go." Whit dragged himself off Clark's shoulder, Clark's hands
twitched with the desire to hold him there. It was never enough.
"I know. Will you…will I see you again this week? Alone?"
"After the prom." He pulled his t-shirt down, and wiped weakly at the mess in
his lap. "After the stupid shit is over, I'll come get you. They expect me to
be out all night. I already talked to her."
Clark snorted, pulled his pants up. If at any time in this whole fucked up mess
anyone had told him he and Lana would be something nearly close to allies, he'd
have hurt himself laughing. "Yeah, good. I'll be waiting." He grinned, a bleak
expression that washed over his face and evaporated. "What other choice do I
have?"
Whit's face closed down, but not before Clark saw how much what he'd said hurt
and for a brief selfish moment he was glad. "Hey—hey, I don't mean it like
that. Can we turn the clock back, to when we were happy to be here?"
Whit laughed. "How far would that have to be Clark? I can't promise you bright
shiny day anytime soon, it's been a hell of a long time since we've had
something even close."
"Whit, mostly what I need is to be close to you. You holding me is pretty darn
near perfect."
"Girl." But Whit was smiling, and Clark felt better.
"I just showed you I wasn't—-do you need a reminder?"
                                  [img-thing]
Clark watched the clock, sitting in a back booth in Pat's Diner. The best thing
about Pat's was that they served fries piled high on giant plates and they
stayed open to one o'clock. He was working on his third cocoa and his second
plate of fries, and his stomach was letting him know in no uncertain terms it
wouldn't be responsible for what happened if he tried to shove anything else
in. He played with the cup, making smile faces and suns out of the brown rings
it left on the table. It was ten-thirty. He licked his lips, mangled a fry, and
wondered how long Lana would insist on Whit playing out her little fantasy.
The door opened, Clark didn't bother looking, he knew it wasn't Whit. He
seriously contemplated one more cocoa, and Pete knocked on the table top.
"Hello, Earth to Clark. Mind sharing the booth?"
"Hey, Pete, sit down. How are you?" He hastily wiped out the ‘W's he'd written
in chocolate on the table, and blushed. "Ah—heh. Fries?"
"Great, thanks. So, I guess Chloe told you? About the plant—and her moving?"
Clark sighed. "It's going to be really lonely without her. I have Whit, but
she's the one real friend I have—" He blushed. "I mean…I mean…"
"Ah, don't worry. It's not like you and I have been…as close. You know, I'm
glad we're talking. And hey, you know that you have friends here in Smallville.
People like you, Clark. You just have to let them like you, you know?"
They talked—about Chloe, about the past, nothing in particular and Clark
relaxed, for a little bit, not a slave to the clock.
It was a little past eleven-thirty, and Pete stood. "Oh man, I have to get the
car home." Behind him was a constant swirl of color and the rustling of
material as couples ran in and out of the diner. "Are you still waiting for
your, unh, your…Whit? Because if you want you can wait at my house?"
Clark looked up into Pete's face, and saw that he thought he'd been dumped. He
felt a twinge of embarrassment, and also a little gratitude for Pete's offer.
"No, I'm just going to go home—" the door opened like it had been almost non-
stop but this time it was Whitney, he didn't even need to look to know. Clark
smiled at Pete and Pete smiled back.
"Guess not. Have a great night Clark. I'll talk to you tomorrow."
 
Whit was in the doorway, still wearing the tux that Clark was seeing for the
first time. Black and gray, the coat a little big across the shoulders, but
damn sexy, Clark. Maybe too sexy. Clark could see clearly Whit's hair was a
little damp at the hairline, and he had a pink spot on his shirt, the knot of
his tie was loose and slightly twisted…his eyes dark and unhappy. Clark blinked
once or twice and the feeling of being hyper-aware snapped back to normal. Pete
was gone and Clark hadn't even noticed him leaving.
Whit held something in his hand that he shoved into his pocket before walking
towards the table. "Hey. You're still here."
"Sure. Where else would I be?" he smiled, and Whit looked happy—grateful.
 
They got into the car Whit rented for the night. Whit took the thing out of his
pocket again, but Clark didn't pay attention to what it was—he could smell
Lana's perfume in the car, mingled with the scent of Whit. It made him angry,
but he forced it down, had no idea why he was suddenly so angry—he'd known what
the deal had been, he'd agreed to it. Still, his blood beat a hot pulse in his
throat, and a small ache squeezed in behind his eyes. Whit snapped the—box, it
looked like shut, shoved it back into his pocket. Clark grimaced. It had
something to do with him—or Lana, he was certain.
All through the drive back home, Whit had his hand on Clark's knee, his thigh,
stroking, squeezing until Clark was ready to beg him to stop. His skin felt
like it was twitching on his bones, and the headache grew, refined, became a
sharp knife point drilling at the back of his skull before finally fading and
he was able to take a deep breath and begin to relax.
They were parked in the shadow of the barn, out of sight of the security lights
on the north side. The engine ran on, the car vibrating gently and the radio
playing some old song…"How—how was it?" Clark managed a smile and Whit made an
impatient movement, shut off the car.
"How do you think it was? I couldn't wait to get away." He peered at Clark.
"Are you okay? He reached for the glove compartment and grimaced. "Sorry, I
don't…"
Clark squeezed his hand. "I'm fine. Thanks. Whit, something's on your
mind—what's going on?"
Whit had his hand in his pocket, he looked thoughtful—more than that, he looked
afraid. "I've been thinking about what I'm going to do after school." He put
both hands on the steering wheel and squeezed. Hard.
"I thought…that you'd work at your dad's store…"
Whit laughed, and shook his head. "Oh, no, no way. I'm stubborn, but I'm not
stupid." He glanced over at Clark. "I never wanted to stay here, you know
that."
Clark felt rather than heard Whit's words, like a roaring in the back of his
mind. He watched his lips, read them. Something bad was going to happen….
Whit reached in his pocket, pulled out a creased sheet of paper, and handed it
to Clark. He opened it and stared at the embossed heading. "Whit…what's this?
United States Marine Corp…?"
"I've enlisted. I meant to tell you yesterday, but—"
"What? What? You're leaving? Leaving me?"
"Not you, Clark, Smallville. It's—this way, I can be my own man, Clark and when
I'm done with boot camp, it'll just be you and me and—it's only thirteen weeks,
Clark. Well, school after that, but it's not long—"
"Are you stupid? You can't be gay and be a Marine. You can't live with me, you
can't—Jesus, you fucking idiot!" Clark almost kicked the door open, yanked away
from Whit's hand. "Don't!" he yelled when Whit reached for his hand. "How can
you do this to me? How can you pretend to care, and then leave?" Clark ran
towards the barn, and Whit had to tackle him to stop him. They lay in the dust
outside of the barn, Whit tangled up in his legs, his arms. Both of them
shaking, on the edge of tears.
"I need to do this, it will work, I promise."
"You can't promise. This is the worst idea ever. Of all the fucking lousy ideas
you've had, this is the worst." Clark was finally crying, shoving at Whitney,
trying to push him off, but Whit wouldn't let him go. Whit's face was red and
splotchy, his shirt was wet, his chin—he wiped his running nose on his sleeve.
"You don't get it, I don't have anything here. Shit, even Wade knew that! If I
can do this, come out of the Marines with rank, and respect, then maybe…"
Clark threw his head back, crossed his arms over his face. "I can't be brave
without you!" he yelled, and lights went on upstairs in his parent's
bedroom…lights went on in the kitchen. Clark let Whit pull him to his feet, let
him hug him…
"Boys, everything okay?" Clark heard his dad call, and he shook with the effort
to hold in a sob.
Yeah, everything's fine, Whit called. Clark tripped, but he's okay."
"Okay. Hey, you guys come on in the house. It's late." His dad went back in,
leaving the door open, and the kitchen light on.
"Baby, you don't need me to be brave," Whit whispered to Clark, and led him
back towards the house. "Fuck, you've been brave for me—it's just who you are."
He wrapped Clark in his arms and hugged him, and rocked him, and wiped his
face. "It won't be long, and then, we'll be on our own. As soon as you're old
enough, you're coming with me. I'll never leave you; I swear on my life, I'll
never leave you."
                                  [img-thing]
Necessity can sometime make the worst bearable, and Clark forced himself to get
used to the idea that Whit would be leaving right after graduation. He didn't
like it, but he came to tolerate it, was fairly certain he wouldn't die from
it.
He didn't talk about it much to his mom and dad; they had worries of their own.
His mom wasn't kicking the morning sickness; it seemed to get worse as the
weeks went by. Medical bills piled up, adding to the usual money woes. He hated
seeing them tight faced as they sat at the kitchen table and dissected their
finances, trying to cut further and further in order to make ends meet. A
little voice at the back of his head whispered how much simpler their lives
would be without him….
The person he could talk to about all this was leaving him, too. The Sullivans
would be gone at the end of school, just weeks away. Mr. Sullivan had managed
to delay leaving so that Chloe could at least finish the year with her friends,
but her junior year would be at a new school somewhere in Metropolis, and after
a while, she'd probably forget her time spent in the country, it'd just be an
odd footnote in her busy city life.
"Aaand enough of wallowing in self-pity. Let's get ice-cream," he said to the
lump under the blanket bunched at the end of the couch. Buddy shot out and
landed on his chest. "Yeah, you ignore me the whole time I'm moaning in psychic
pain but mention ice-cream…" Buddy wiggled all over him, snuffling and snorting
moistly in Clark's face.
"Ew, okay, but you're sharing a cone, too much is no good for you. He rubbed
Buddy's ears. "You're getting old, and you have to watch your waist line now."
Clark looked down at his perfectly flat stomach, ignoring that he was thin
enough that ribs showed. "Me too," he murmured. "I don't want Whit coming back
home to a fatty." He followed Buddy to the stairs. "Since he hasn't left yet
though, I'm entitled to ice-cream." He lunged down the steps, and trapped his
dad in the truck shed, and managed to weasel keys and a few bucks from him.
"Thanks, Dad—we won't be long."
His dad waved idly in his direction, his full attention on the tractor motor in
pieces in front of him. "Drive safe, Clark, and be back before dark, the left
headlight's out on that old clunker."
"Heck, I'll be back before dinner—Mom's making roast beef tonight."
His dad's eyes lit up. "Great. Better be here on time or there may not be any
left."
                                  [img-thing]
Clark sat on one of the picnic tables scattered behind Bobby's Ice Cream Hut,
Whit sat next to him and tossed bits of waffle cone to Buddy, tethered to the
table leg. Clark had practically kidnapped Whit from the store, yanking him by
the arm down the aisle of Fordman's, both of them laughing all the way.
"Hey," Clark explained after he'd pulled him out into the sunlight, "What the
hell—you're graduating in a week, leaving home—what have you got to worry
about, right?"
Whit laughed again, and hugged him in front of the big store window. "You know
what, Kent? You're abso-fucking-lutely right. Let's get ice cream."
                                  [img-thing]
"That, my friend, was a brilliant idea." Whit wiped ice-cream from his fingers,
and leaned over to wipe a smear of fudge sauce from Clark's lip. Clark grabbed
his hand and licked the smear from the tip of his fingers.
"Mmm. Tastes good."
Whit shivered. "The chocolate or me?"
"I'm not sure. We can do a taste test…wanna go back to my house?"
"Ahhh…yeah. Listen, stop by my house first, there's something I want to get."
"Okay, but don't take long. My mom is making roast and potatoes and I don't
want to miss out."
"Geez Clark, is that all you think about? Your stomach…" he followed Clark's
line of sight and blushed a little. "And my dick, apparently."
Clark grinned and shrugged.
                                  [img-thing]
Clark stood outside the house and through the front door, watched Whitney and
his father arguing. It was loud. Clark couldn't make out words through the
closed door but he heard the tone—vicious—Whit's father was red-faced and
furious, and Whitney was shaking his head, a stubborn look stamped on his face.
His father came closer, yelling right into Whit's face, and Whit took a step
back, and when his father raised his hand, Clark bolted for the door. He pulled
it open, just in time to hear Whit say "No", and grab his father's hand. The
man dropped it immediately. He looked over Whit's shoulder and Clark locked
eyes with him.
"Get out," he said, a harsh whisper that made Clark grit his teeth, and reach
out for Whit. Whitney backed up, his hand searching for Clark's, nodded.
"I'm leaving. My stuff—you do what you want with it. I won't be back here
anymore."
Clark gasped, and pulled Whit back with him. "Come on, Whit, come on…"
"Fine. I've got what I want."
His father opened his mouth to speak and Clark said. "No. Don't say anything
else you might regret."
The man stared at him, his eyes ice cold and flat with hatred, but he kept
silent. Clark felt his eyes on him all the way out to the car. Clark had the
unsettling feeling he was stealing something from the Fordmans—he shook
himself—hell, no he wasn't. He was giving something—support— to Whit, that's
what he was doing.
They walked out of the house, and down the sidewalk, climbed in the truck
before either of them spoke again.
"Some loyal employee from the store called him." Whit slammed and locked his
door, and hugged a frantic Buddy to him before he spoke again. "God, that was
awful. Just fucking awful…" and he started to laugh.
Clark startled. "What the hell is so funny?" he demanded.
"Clark—the whole shit was unbelievable. And I'm still standing. That's the
thing—I was always afraid of him, of what would happen if I told him the truth.
And here it is, I told him what I thought and I'm still standing and feeling
great!" He sounded so amazed, so surprised that Clark laughed with him. "I
guess all you have to be is honest some times. Like you, Clark. Thanks for
sticking with me."
"Yeah…" Clark swallowed, "yeah, don't thank me, Whit, I didn't do anything. So,
what the hell was so important that you got thrown out for?"
"You'll see…say; you think your folks will still let me stay? It's only three
more weeks."
"Of course." Clark crossed his fingers mentally and hoped like hell that his
parents would agree…things were a lot different now than then… "Three weeks,
Whit. Three weeks…I don't know if I can stand it."
"Clark, the most important thing I need, is to know that you will stand it, and
that you'll be okay waiting for me." He rose up a little from the seat, and
fished in his pocket. "I've been carrying this around since prom. Don't you
dare think it's stupid. Listen, pull over up ahead, okay?"
Clark glanced over, and saw he was holding the same little box he'd had prom
night, before they'd had the meltdown. He felt a little flushed, and grinned,
eyes on the windshield. "What's that?" He glanced back ahead—they were about to
cross over the road that led to the Smallville sign, and he remembered...he saw
that Whit did too.
"What—this box? I stole it from the house." He grinned. "I needed a nice box to
hold a gift for someone I love. It used to be my grandmother's. I loved her—I
still miss her."
"You never told me about her. Or anything about your family, really."
"Clark—what's to tell? Mostly we're a mess but my Gran, she listened to me."
Whit squeezed the dull gray box in his hand. "It's not real pretty, but it
means a lot. Like you do."
Buddy snuffled at the box, and Whit pushed him back, "Not for you—oh."
Clark looked over at Whit—and past Whit, through the passenger side window,
Clark saw a truck bearing down on them, he saw the driver's face, saw a can fly
up inside the cab and liquid splash against the inside of the windshield, the
driver's lips formed ‘oh fuck', clear and precise and easy to read. Clark
reached out for Whit and it got dark inside the car, he felt something like a
giant's punch in the center of his chest, his teeth slammed together and the
sound echoed down to his toes—
 [http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/000521cq/s320x240]
art by: Digitalwave
 [http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/0008740w/s320x240]
art by: Lapetite_kiki
***** Chapter 12 *****
 [img-thing] This is where I died
I can’t stop walking around the tangled mess on the road…this is the hood of
the truck, peeled back from the body…this is where the windshield exploded, and
the side mirror and the driver’s side—there’s glass like stars all over the
blacktop. This is the driver’s seat, this is the
I feel glass all over me...I hear sirens, see the flashing lights, I feel like
the top of my head is exploding in slow motion over and over and I feel a hand
on mine. I feel like the top of my head is exploding in slow motion over and
over the top of my head is exploding in slow motion over and over
over and over
A soft voice says shhh, shh, and I realize then that I’m screaming
It’s a dream; I know it’s a dream. The boy is right there, outside of my window
and he’s smiling. I can see it, like looking underwater…my head hurts a lot.
Open the door get out of the truck Kal, he says and I push against it and it’s
gone I have to get Whit out I say and he shakes his head. I take a step back to
the car; I don’t remember moving away from it
Whit?
The truck flew from this side of the road, to this side, and about this point
right here, this is where I died
                                  [img-thing]
Lights were too bright, everything had a hard edge, an edge that seemed to
vibrate, Clark felt as if he touched anything he’d cut himself. People were
running, there was screaming…he was wrapped in a blanket and his mother's arms,
his dad was staring at him and looked so scared and it reminded him of…of. His
mouth hurt, his teeth hurt, his eyes hurt. "Where’s Whit? Is he okay, can I
talk to him?" Lights got brighter and brighter… "Has anyone seen my dog?" he
asked, and heard someone crying.
                                  [img-thing]
The lights swam for a moment, and he moved. His back didn’t hurt anymore; there
was something warm, a blanket under him. He blinked and recognized Smallville
Medical’s emergency room. His mom was wiping the hair back from his forehead,
and he asked her, "Whit? Is he here too?"
"Honey, not yet," his mom said. "Baby…"
"Let me talk to him—I want to talk to him," and Clark's voice got louder, and
he pushed his mom back from the table and tried to get down. His whole body
flipped and there was a nurse, holding his head as he threw up into a bowl.
"Don’t move yet, okay? You’re fine, but you got tossed around pretty good…he’s
fine," she repeated to his mom and dad. "He’s just bruised, he’ll be awfully
sore."
Dad nodded. "We talked to the doctor…when can we take him home?"
"Just as soon as the paperwork comes up."
"Not without Whit." Clark set his feet and stood. "Where is he?"
"Clark," his dad said, shaking his head, "sit down son, please sit down."
No. No. No. No—
                                  [img-thing]
Clark was home, the only thing to show of the accident a long scratch at the
base of his skull. It had bled freely, was frightening to his parents but was
just a scratch, hidden by his hair. His headaches were constant, but he said
nothing to anyone. His mom had been so upset, they’d worried, and Clark didn’t
want to upset her more, and make her sick. He didn’t want to talk about the
headaches anyway, or that he felt afraid all the time. He didn’t want to tell
her that he felt dead.
Chloe tried to divide her time between her dad and Clark, and Clark appreciated
it, he really did. He hoped she’d forgive him for throwing her out, but her
presence made him twitchy and angry. There was only so much pity he could take.
Mom made him angry. She kept telling him that she understood, and that someday
he’d feel better. How could she know? Besides, she had the baby to think about.
The baby.
Clark went into town with his dad. He went…not to Fordman’s. To the mall, the
big faceless mall stuffed with people, moving around and not giving a flying
fuck about him.
He was in a men's shop, looking at the black suits. The pants from his only
suit fit in the waist, a touch short but not too bad…he kept telling his dad
they were fine, but the jacket was too short in the sleeves, and his mom’s face
had wrinkled unpleasantly when he’d pulled it shut and it was too big. Too big.
All his shirts were too big, his pants…he looked across the mall and was caught
by…something, some thought….
"Clark." His dad’s hand was on his arm, but for a moment he didn’t recognize
his dad and he jumped, with a little cry.
"Clark, it’s okay. Do you want to go home?"
He stared at his dad for a long minute; it seemed to take that long for the
string of words to connect to some meaning. He shook his head, and took a
jacket, black, into the fitting room. It fit. It was black. It was cheap and it
was fine.
He was home in the kitchen and reading the obit page.
Again. Again.
His mom slid a plate covered by a slab of pie as big as first base in front of
him, ice cream sat on it, melting. He swallowed thick saliva and tried not to
grimace. He’d already shoved as much as his dinner as he could down his throat
and there was no way…he tried to smile at her. The phone rang, and she groaned,
pressed her hands into her back and levered herself out of her chair. She waved
him down when he rose to answer the phone. "You eat, hon—I’ve got it. It’s
probably for me…" she answered it.
"Hello? Oh, hello—excuse me? Excuse me?" Clark watched the blood drain from her
face, and her eyebrows draw together, her lips thinned out. "I can’t believe
that you’d call us and ask such a thing. I can’t believe that—disrespect?
You’re insane." His mom slammed the phone down and he knew before she spoke.
"I'm going. They can’t stop me."
"Clark…they can. Please don’t cause a scene—Whitney wouldn’t have wanted that."
He stared at his mother in open mouthed horror. "What makes you think you know
what Whit wants? Or those people? Nobody knows him, not like I do."
He left the house and climbed the stairs to the loft. He sat on the couch,
wrapped around a red pillow, it felt like the only thing he had left in the
world that was his….he buried his face in it and cried for everything he’d
lost.
                                  [img-thing]
Clark was waiting for his dad outside of the feed store, and suddenly Lana was
standing in front of him, like a corpse floating to the surface of a lake. "I’d
like to talk to you," she said.
He tilted his head, trying to understand what she was saying. Words percolated
slowly through his head, and he opened his mouth. "Leave me alone."
Her expression didn’t change, it just kind of…tightened all over, her eyes, her
mouth. She said, "You have no right. You act like you’re the wronged one—you’re
not. I’m the one. You weren’t being laughed at; you weren’t at the center of
the gossip and the butt of jokes, not like I was. No one talked about you the
way they talked about me and I had to walk around with my head high, and
smiling, smiling all the damn time…you think you’re hurt? What about me?"
Clark felt something. Finally, he felt something. It roared up from the ground,
swept him until it filled his head—a great roaring black wave of hatred, so
swift, so hot, it made him gasp. He was afraid, that he might kill her.
And then the tight veneer cracked, her face crumbled, her lips twisted and
shook. "Every time he left my house, I knew where he was going. I knew the
smile on his face wasn’t for me. When he kissed me, he wasn’t with me." Tears
stood in her eyes. "I know you hate me, and I certainly can’t pretend that
you’re my favorite person—but you can’t go to the funeral. I’m asking you,
please. You think it’s a punishment, some last cruelty, but it’s not. It’s all
I have left, and all his parents have. Let them hold onto the idea that some
happy future was possible, for their son and his fiancé— please."
Fiancé? Clark let the word roll over him like a razor-bladed combine…he nodded.
"I won’t go to the funeral."
She nodded, and walked away.
Clark took one step closer to the road, and waited for his dad.
                                  [img-thing]
He had to come out here—to this place. That thing, that something, kept calling
him out to it. Day, night, it called him
Heat made the black top shimmer, and waves of heat danced over the fields, the
dry weeds marching back into the corn. His hair dripped, sweat rolled down his
ribs and soaked the waistband of his pants. It was ridiculously hot for May,
almost unbearably hot. He trudged on through the powdery roadside dust, he had
to find it. He knew it was here…he shuddered, his stomach flipped and he felt
ghost pain in his jaws. He’d stepped on broken red plastic, chunks from a tail
light. The crack it made as his heel snapped it sounded briefly like bones
breaking. Farther into the weeds, a headlight sat, throwing back painful
reflections from the glaring sun. He shook his head and tried to focus on the
here and now. A few feet beyond that, on the edge of where the corn began, a
truck side mirror was partially buried in the dirt. He turned away.
Clark walked farther up the road, heard a car behind him, heard it rolling to a
stop in the roadside gravel. He kept walking, when the door opened and
footsteps rattled behind him, he kept walking.
"Hey—shit! Ooof!"
Clark stopped, sighed deeply and turned. "Pete. Why are you here?"
Pete was picking himself up from the dirt, wincing and wiping at his pants
legs. "Question is, why are you here? What are you looking for? Your folks tell
me this is the third time you’ve been out here. Stop coming out here, Clark.
Nothing you find is going to make you happy."
Clark closed his eyes, and waited a beat before answering. "Whitney was going
to give me something; he had a box, his grandmother’s. He said he was going to
give it to me and then, when-when—"
He flailed, speechless, all control gone, so upset, he lost words, lost
air…Pete was at his side in a flash.
"Okay, okay, let’s look together, Cee. How…maybe they, unh, picked it up. Maybe
his folks have it?"
Clark shook his head. "I asked Lana."
Pete was open-mouthed in astonishment. He looked so staggered, Clark might as
well have told him that he’d secretly longed for Lana all this time… "What the
fuck? Why would she tell you the truth, dude?"
Clark shrugged helplessly. "She would, I just—know. She wouldn’t lie to me
about that anymore, not now."
"Okay, okay," Pete said, in the tone of voice reserved for possibly violent
dogs and armed men on rooftops. He held his hands up, nodded. "Let’s look,
okay…"
Clark sighed. "Thanks Pete." He directed him to cover an area directly across
from where the other driver’s truck had come to a stop, and he walked the weeds
opposite that area. The heat pressed against him, his shirt stuck and shifted
against him, wet, sticking and unsticking…the grasses on the roadside glued to
him, and pulled away reluctantly as he pushed through them. He didn’t care, he
ignored everything except searching. He had to find it, whatever it was Whit
wanted him to have, he had to find it. It would explain everything.
"I found something," Pete yelled, and Clark whirled around and raced back out
through the weeds, stumbled to a stop in front of Pete.
"What? Where is it?"
Pete held up a belt buckle. "Ah, sorry. This doesn’t look like what you want,"
he frowned.
"No Pete, it really doesn’t. I’m pretty much fucking certain he didn’t want to
give me a mother-fucking ‘Keep On Trucking' belt buckle." Clark snatched it
from Pete’s hand, ignoring his yelp of pain and threw it, intending to wing it
back into the weeds…they watched it sail off into the sky….
Pete and Clark stared at each other for a long moment, before Pete whispered,
"I’m sorry, Cee."
Clark shook his head, "No, hell no. I’m sorry, that was crappy of me. Are you
okay?"
Pete nodded. "I’ll keep looking. Clark…that’s some arm you got…"
"Um. Yeah. Thanks, Pete."
Back to the weeds, even hotter now, and his heart was still beating hard. He
felt an odd wave of…something, something dark. Hot and cold at the same time.
He bent, and half buried in soft dirt and gravel of the shoulder was a box. An
ugly, gray box, right under his foot. He scrabbled at the dirt, pulled up the
box and the bent cover fell off, a ring fell out and bounced off his boot.
He knelt…Whit’s school ring. He snorted. A school ring, like—like he was Whit's
girlfriend. That was a fucking laugh. Clark sat suddenly, his legs too weak to
hold him. He dropped his head leaned it on crossed arms. A black wave rolled
over him, rolled him up, it was cold and deep and sharp, made of night and
razorblades. Clark slipped the ring on his finger and knew, finally he
understood—he was death, a curse, everything he touched died or withered,
corrupted because of what he was. The best thing he could do for his friends,
for his family was to leave, before he killed them, too.
The ring felt heavy on his hand. He could feel the CKWF engraved inside the
band. He rolled it on his finger, and he couldn’t take it off. The red stone
winked up at him, blood red, and deep in the center, fire danced. It was a
stupid ring. Whit had said he’d think it was stupid, and he did, it was so
fucking stupid, and he’d cut his finger off before he removed it ever again.
The thought made him feel even more lost than he’d felt before.
                                  [img-thing]
Since there was only a half day at school, he didn’t bother going. He packed
some clothes in a backpack. He took the red pillow from his bed, and pressed it
to his face. Remembered the first time...the first time. How he’d held the
pillow.
Clark took the pillow into the room that used to be the guest room, and tucked
it into the rocker, the only piece of furniture in the room. The room looked
nice with its fresh coat of paint; it was going to look cute when the crib and
everything else was in place.
Downstairs, he checked the clock. His mom and dad were at the doctor's, and
most of the school was at the funeral, and he was headed downtown. He stopped
in the kitchen, and leaned against the doorframe—Buddy’s bed was still next to
the mudroom door. He wiped his eyes, and walked out, across the yard, and
sprinted to the barn, up to the loft.
Into the backpack, he crammed the robe Chloe’d given him and the junk in the
drawer. He stuffed it deep into the bag, and grabbed the can he’d been shoving
change and bills into, saving for Christmas, saving to get something really
nice for…
He couldn’t get out of Smallville soon enough. He hated the town. He’d head out
to the road where the bus stopped to pick up folks headed to Metropolis. If he
was fast enough, he’d make it before his parents came home…he could run that
fast.
A car pulled up in the driveway, and his heart turned over with a painful slam.
But it was Fred.
Only Fred. Fred got out of his car, and walked towards him. He had a bag in his
hand.
Stopped in front of him. "Here. She didn’t want it. So his parents gave it to
me. It don’t fit."
Clark stared down at Whit’s jacket stupidly. Nothing came to mind, his mouth
didn’t work. He just kept staring.
"Funeral's over. You going somewhere?"
"…bus…stop."
"Yeah? Get in. I’ll drive you." They didn’t speak, and Fred kept his eyes on
the road. They got to the stop ten minutes before the bus came. Fred finally
looked at him. "He loved you a lot."
Clark nodded and climbed out, and Fred handed him a handful of bills. "For the
bus. Hey, don’t be stupid," he snorted when Clark tried to shove them back. "Go
on. Don’t get hurt."
Clark nodded and climbed on the bus and before the doors shut, Fred called out,
"Me too!" and drove away.
Clark sat in the back of the bus, and stared at his reflection in the window
for all the miles it took to get to the city.
 
 [http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/0004r17s/s320x240]
art by: Danceswithgary
 
Part Two
warm sand under him, and a full soft mouth on his, air’s flowing into his
mouth, and the lips move, soft, wet, dragging back from his lips to his
brow…plush, so deep…
deep warm water sucks at his legs, arms, trying to pull him under. Seaweed
wraps around his ankles like malignant boneless fingers sliding over him and
tangling him up, pulling him down and down….
breaks the surface of the sea with a hoarse shout, beating at the dark waves in
an effort to keep afloat. Bobbing above the waves but water still drips in his
face, it’s raining, drops pelt the ocean and the splash splash splash of water
hitting water rings in his ears. Wetter drops, big and fat, hit his forehead,
his skull, his eye…drops persistently hit his eye…
He blinks. Sun warms his bare shoulders, his neck—He’s in France, at Dad’s
summer house. Sitting on the porch, sunning, in trunks and beach slides…warm...
a cat’s on his lap, and over and over it’s licking his eye….
Lex came awake, enough to know he was at home in his bed, there was someone
over him, he had a tongue in his eye—his fist shot out and came to a hard stop,
it jarred him right down to his shoulder and a familiar laugh sent mint-scented
breath gusting across his cheek.
"Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with you?" Lex dragged heavy hands over his
face; he was wet from eye socket to the top of his head. "What the fuck, did
you just lick me until I woke up?"
Lucas grinned down into his face, Lex’s fist still caught in his hand, shaking
a little with the effort to keep Lex immobile. "It was funny. First you were
all smiles and ‘mmm' and then you kept getting more and more freaked out.
Funny."
Lex yanked his hand away, and stood, debated pulling the sheet off the bed to
cover himself and shrugged. Walked across the room to his bathroom, naked and
goose bumps running up his spine. Cold, because no doubt the little brat prince
turned the heat down as soon as he came in. And speaking of Lucas, he was right
on his heels. Naturally.
Lucas followed him into the bathroom and sat on the sink while Lex pissed. He
could feel the kid’s eyes on him…Lex glanced over. "What?" he asked, still
sleepy, still grumpy. Especially grumpy.
Lucas was staring downwards. "Why don’t you shave those pathetic little hairs
off? It’s like some mini version of a comb over or something."
"Fuck you," Lex snapped and looked down at the sparse ginger dusting around his
dick. "Stop looking at my groin and tell me what the fuck you’re doing here—and
how you got in, I thought I took your key. All your keys."
"Lex, that’s so sweet, and so funny that you thought that’d keep me out. As to
why I’m here…" Lucas hopped down and ran a glass of water, drank a little
before turning back to Lex, who was washing his hands and looking at Lucas
impatiently. "Here’s the thing." He took a big swallow, set the glass down and
said, "Dad died last night."
Lex stumbled against the sink and grabbed Lucas. "What? What the fuck do you
mean—why the hell did you wait this long to tell me?" No surprise they’d
contacted Lucas first, Lex had been out of the Luthor ‘need to know' loop for a
while.
"I just found out myself. I was…out. More or less," Lucas said.
"Out? You were out…out partying, or out unconscious?" Lucas grinned and
shrugged. "God." Lex stood for a moment, absently rubbing his lip and thinking,
‘This is it—this means I’m finally free…could it be that easy? He’s gone and
I’m free?' He looked at Lucas. "Tell me what happened."
"Heart attack. He was getting into the limo, took a step and dropped—hit the
street. Boom. Gone," Lucas snapped his fingers, "like that. Good night, sweet
prince." Grinned.
"Heartless monkey," Lex muttered.
Lucas shrugged. "So, now, you’re stuck with me."
"No, you’re stuck with LuthorCorp. Go, make money, lose money, whatever. I’ve
got Lexcorp to run. Get out so I can take a shower."
"I can get in with you," he leered and leaned closer to Lex. Lex pushed him
back, hard, and he hit the bathroom door and laughed.
"That was only funny never, you sick bastard. Get out or I’ll drown you."
Lucas grinned and walked out, leaving the door open. "I’ll get your cook to
make breakfast, something besides toast and a pot of coffee…"
                                  [img-thing]
Lex stood head down in the shower, let warm water pour over him and wondered
how he should feel. The man that had contributed half the genetic material that
made up Alexander Luthor was dead. Fell dead in the street and if God was good,
he died in the gutter, in filth…he was finally dead. The man who raised him,
instructed him in life’s little lessons, taught him to value the best money
could buy...the man who’d slept with his fiancé, poisoned him, conspired with
another bitch to murder him…if he wasn’t so fucking full of luck, he’d be dead
now.
Bastard.
Lex barked out a laugh, and shook his head. He’d made life interesting, that
was certain. Even after he’d grown and realized that his father was never going
to give him the unconditional love that parents were rumored to give their
children, even after Lex had stopped modeling himself on him and began to try
and be his own man, part of him wanted his dad to love him—to at least like
him. He’d wasted years lying to himself, making himself over into Lionel’s
clone, and then almost killing himself in a fruitless attempt to prove—what, he
was his own man? That hadn’t worked out as well as he’d hoped. He’d come
crawling back, tail between his legs and he’d paid. Done everything Lionel had
asked for…he’d paid a million times over for every indiscretion, every smudge
on the Luthor name.
Lucas thought he hated Dad more, because Dad had once rejected him, denied him
a family, but Lucas had no idea how lucky he’d been. Lionel had no concept of
normal family, never did. He had no concept of normal anything, the bastard.
Lex reached out and turned the water as hot as he could stand it and began
scrubbing, starting from his toes and working his way up. staring into the
tiles, scrubbing until his skin blushed blood red…cleaning, cleaning…all Lionel
understood was ‘mine' and ‘soon to be mine’, and what was his was used in
whatever way he saw fit.
Lex stood under the scalding spray until Lucas yelled, "Hey, come on, you’re
steaming up the whole room—you must be a fucking prune by now!"
Lex started, tumbled a million miles back into reality. Turned off the faucets
and hurriedly wrapped himself in a terry robe.
"Come on, will you? I’m hungry!"
Lucas…Lucas might be a self-centered sneaky little bastard who’d do anything or
anyone to get ahead, but still he was family, and all Lex had left. Not that
he’d trust Lucas as far as he could throw LuthorCorp towers… Lex smirked. But
they shared some experiences, and the same world view, and they were both
trying to pull themselves out of the moral quicksand Lionel had stranded them
in. Lionel left behind a pair of dysfunctional men, struggling to understand
how to be normal people, both with chips on their shoulders a mile wide and
only themselves to count on.
Lex looked up to the ceiling, and spoke to no one. "We are so fucked."
                                  [img-thing]
Once in motion, events ran smoothly and quickly, and Lex was more than grateful
for that. The old man was in the ground, Lex thought to himself, and he’d never
see his face again, look into his eyes, never feel his hand on his again…a bone
deep shudder of relief shook him, nearly took his breath away.
Lucas paused with his hand on the doorknob, looked Lex’s way. "Are you okay?"
At his nod, he asked, with a little smile, "Than are you ready?"
"Like I’ve been waiting for this moment all my life."
Lucas raised an eyebrow, and smirked. Bowed Lex into the lawyer’s office.
"Eldest first," he murmured.
                                  [img-thing]
Lucas of course got everything, and that was fine. Lex had expected it, wanted
it that way. Lucas was pleased by the recognition, appalled to realize it was
all his, and desperate for Lex’s help.
They stepped out of the lawyer’s office, Lex steadily ignoring the cameras,
Lucas mugging outrageously. A terse "No comment" was all Lex would spare to
shouted questions, and he shoved Lucas through the crowds to make sure he
didn’t talk to reporters.
"Wow, what the hell was all that about? Didn't the vultures seem a little more
frantic than usual?" Lucas asked Lex when they were safely relaxing in the
limo. He yanked off his tie and stuffed it in his pocket, searched the mini-bar
for beer.
Lex adjusted his tie so that it lay smoothly against his chest and tilted his
head towards Lucas, his lips quirked into a small half smile. "That was about
the two richest twenty-somethings in the Midwest…the west coast," he murmured,
checking his phone. He looked up at Lucas. "You’re going to have to give up
some of your hobbies now."
Lucas looked up from the bar, triumphantly holding a bottle. "No I’m not. I’m
going to have to set up an account labeled ‘shut up money'." He looked so
cocky, so pleased with himself that Lex had to laugh.
"You’re an idiot, you know that?"
Lucas just winked.
                                  [img-thing]
Clark thought he knew what lonely was. Lonely was sitting in your room, staring
at the ceiling, headphones feeding tears and suicide into your ears, and
worrying that maybe, you’d never have friends—the friends you deserved, the
love you wanted. Lonely was only having your mom to talk to, or sitting on the
bus with an empty space next to you. No one to share lunch with.
He found out lonely was a huge black locked room, and being stuck in the center
with no key. Lonely gnawed at you, ate you, starting with your heart and
working its way out slowly. Lonely. He looked at the other kids passing by, the
kids that looked alien, less human than he was, but alive and all he had to do
was reach out—just to touch someone, to be close—
He walked back and forth across the concrete apron of the bus station, Whit’s
jacket bumping against his hip. Everything in the world was in that jacket or
in his pocket, and he already felt as if the world was a shadow.
Whole days passed before he dared to close his eyes. He was afraid to sleep,
afraid to let his guard down for an instant. There was something out there that
wanted to hurt him, he felt it every day, every moment he lay his head down, he
felt it coming closer. He walked and walked, he kept moving, because if he
stopped, he’d sleep, and if he slept….
…that night the first night, getting off the bus in Metropolis was like getting
off the bus in hell—acid white light glaring in his burning eyes, the static-
filled blare of the PA system, the stink of diesel and wet granite and sour
garbage invaded him, unsettled and disoriented him. The huge bank of windows at
one end of the station was terrifying—in his dreams hell looked like this, tall
windows, a voice blaring gibberish overhead, people, people everywhere…but in
his dreams, an angel always took him away from hell, a smiling brown face saved
him time and again…
He snapped back to the here and now. He stood on the apron, and the passengers
streamed around his frozen self and he thought, what next? What came next?'
Metropolis. The City. He’d been before. To the museums, once a play, and every
year, shopping at Christmas time, when the streets had been bright, and snow
dusted the ground, and lights twinkled everywhere. There’d been carts selling
chestnuts and they smelled good, and Dad split the hulls for him....
Now, it was hot and even in the night, the sidewalk radiated heat. The garbage
scented air felt like it was made of warm glue, felt like it was trying to
crawl into his pores. The only lights were the security lights on tall black
poles, ringing the bus stations, casting an orange glow over concrete. Their
black skeletons and weird light lent a nightmare quality to the trash piled
against every wall. He could see this city and the one he thought he knew were
very different things..
He walked out to the street, took a deep breath, and felt—terrified. He was
alone. He realized, that only time he’d been totally alone was when he was six
years old, and about to walk to school, because he’d missed the bus…tears
flooded his eyes, and he ran until his side ached and it was hard to breathe.
He looked around himself and saw nothing. Black bulks of empty buildings, no
one on the street, no light, no cars…he was tired and hungry, he needed to sit
and eat.
He walked past chain link fencing bordering an old building. It rattled and
shook as he trailed his hand along it. Looked in at the building it surrounded
and thought if the fence was there, it was meant to keep people out. Which
meant no one was inside. Maybe…maybe he could find a place to sleep and no one
would know. He promised himself in the morning he’d look for a hotel room; he
had enough for a night, maybe more.
He squeezed through a slit in the chain link, hoped that his passage wouldn’t
alert security, or set off alarms, and found a broken window to climb through.
It felt weird, it wasn’t something he ever could imagine doing in Smallville,
letting himself into a building without permission.
It was dark inside, and smelled like piss and shit and rotten things, like the
refuse heap on the farm—under the odor there was another, sweet and thick
and—dead things, it smelled like. He pushed on, through the dark, picking his
steps carefully. He sat gingerly on what looked to be a clear area, and opened
his pack. Two bottles of water. A bag of M&Ms, packs of cheese crackers. He
dumped them out, cracked open the water and drank. It opened his throat, made
his mouth come alive, and all the horrible smells of the night tried to go down
with it.
He glanced around and could make out he was in a lobby—the building had
probably been a hotel once. He pushed back, leaned against a half wall behind
him. He was not going to cry. This was his decision, he chose this. One thing
he was certain of—this was definitely not an adventure. He could hear Whitney
now. "Kent, you giant asshole. Get your butt back home right now." He laughed a
little, and swore. He was not going to cry. Not even when he could feel Whit's
hands on him, feel Whit's cheek against his. Not. Going to cry.
He pulled Whit’s jacket out of the pack, shoved an arm in one sleeve and rolled
the rest under his head in an uncomfortable pillow, and buried his face in the
fading familiar scent. His eyes wanted to fill again, but that wall of knife
sharp blackness seeped into him, made him cold inside, reminded him he was
where he belonged. He closed his eyes and told himself stories…like his mom did
when he was little and couldn’t sleep because there were monsters in the
closet. Sleep snuck up on him, wound him down into dreams.
He woke up with a shout—someone was yanking at his feet. He yelled and kicked,
and felt something soft give, heard a startled curse—feet running. Clark leaped
up, swinging, help, help, that man was back—he was here—
"Whit! Whit!" he screamed, staggered at the memory he wasn’t home, the fresh
rip of grief— remembered with a deep disappointed groan where he was. Horror
raised the hair on his neck—his stuff, it was gone—gone—no, there it was.
His pack gaped open, it was halfway across the crumbling space, not under his
feet where he’d put it before sleeping. He heard giggling and looked up. Moon
light pooled in the open space of the building lobby he’d taken refuge in.
Faces swam up and disappeared in the weak light, before running footsteps let
Clark know they’d gone again. Kids. Kids took his stuff…he dropped to the
ground and grabbed his pack. All gone, food, clothes, money…his wallet flopped
open, gutted of everything but pictures, an old collar of Buddy’s caught a bit
of the light, near it a tube of purple lipstick. He moaned out loud as he
scrambled for the few precious items they’d left him and he realized he was
sweeping Whit’s jacket through the grime—still had his arm shoved in the
sleeve. He dropped and curled around himself, his stuff cradled against his
chest. All that meant anything to him was right there in his hands, all he had
left. A few dollars in his pocket, change from the tickets and the food he’d
bought in Granville. He’d lost everything else because he’d fallen asleep.
                                  [img-thing]
Clark was sitting on the wall near the station, cup trapped between his
fingers. His routine had become simple—back to the station, wash quickly and as
well as he could at a bathroom sink, find something to eat. He sipped at the
coffee, and sighed. This cup was it. The last. He’d blown through the pitiful
handful of change that was all they’d left him, the thieves. So he sat,
watching the other kids, other people who lived on the street, hoping to see
some sign of guilt, something that would tip him off to the culprits who’d made
his life that much harder. He nursed the coffee he’d bought earlier and dumped
packs and packs of sugar into, topped off with the little tubs of fake cream.
(Mom was making coffee right now. Making pancakes, with butter and syrup and
eggs over easy and bacon, sausage, toast, jam…) his stomach growled so loud he
blushed. Sipped more of the sweet, too creamy liquid. He put the nearly empty
cup between his feet, and wiped his face on the edge of Whit’s jacket, pressed
his face into the sleeve.
It still smelled like him, if he concentrated really hard. Clark looked up,
staring into the past. Caught the eye of a woman walking briskly by, and smiled
politely because that’s how he knew to be. She was going to work, or coming
home from work, whatever…she threw change into his cup and passed on.
Clark gaped, the first thing he felt was anger. …damn it, how am I supposed to
finish that darn coffee now… ' And then Clark realized that now, sunk into the
sugar at the bottom of his cup, was the price of another cup.
He gulped the remainder of the coffee, letting the wet sugar slide down his
throat, and sucked the change clean. Shoved it in his pocket. Today, he’d see
if he could get breakfast, and then look about getting a job.
                                  [img-thing]
Clark crammed himself in the back stall, feet up on the metal wall, and ass on
the bowl. He thought seriously, comparing spending the night in the bus station
bathroom, to spending the night in an abandoned building. There were points for
it, he considered, bouncing his pack on his knee, and licking the last bits of
chocolate from the wrapper of a vending machine candy bar. Points for—it
smelled marginally less bad, there was water, light, and enough noise to keep
him from sleeping. That was important. That was what he needed. He’d spent—he
wasn’t sure how many days—looking for some kind of job, but the answer was
always the same, he was too young, or too—dirty, he guessed. He looked dusty
and grimy. He was asking for jobs with his shirt turned inside out, trying to
look cleaner…and he smelled. He smelled himself. He knew what he looked
like—exactly what he was. A runaway. He was feeling desperate. The longer he
spent on the street, the less he felt able to move forward, or back…
The bank of phones outside of the station caught his eye again and again, he
moved towards them five, ten times a day, each time, the black wave flowed over
and engulfed him, reminded him every time. There was no place for him in
Smallville; he had less there than here on the street. He moved on, past the
phones, past the corners where other kids were grouped, thrown together by a
common lack of hope. He kept moving, smiling, nodding, moving past the words,
past the looks, past thinking.
                                  [img-thing]
"Hey, kid—you look like you could use something to eat."
Clark looked up at the idling car, his chest tightened. His heart thundered,
stomach jerked. He could do this. He could do this. He fingered the sleeves
tied around his waist and begged Whit to forgive him. Tried to convince himself
it meant nothing—nothing. He read the hunger in the guy’s eyes, and stepped
back. "Hey, come on kid—you want something to eat or not?"
Clark twisted the ring on his finger, and realized, in a stabbing moment of
clarity, what difference did it make? Especially to him, what difference did it
make? A blowjob, what was that? One little bunch of minutes, gone and forgotten
and he’d have food, maybe a place to stay the night…
"Fuckin' make up your mind kid, it’s raining like fuck out here…"
"O-okay. Yeah."
"Great…there’s a place not far from here…how much?"
                                  [img-thing]
Begging for change was easy, simple, safe. And took all day to get just enough
for a sandwich sometimes.
This was faster.
Dark, grit under his knees…eyes open because any one of them could be That Man.
He could reach out and savage Clark at any minute—Clark watched them all to
make sure they weren’t Him. Their eyes…were so much the same. Clark had
forgotten the eyes….
Taste of saltbleachblood thick in his mouth and dryness plucked at his eyes.
Hands on his knees, their knees. Sometimes he wished he was strong enough to
break their bones. Or his own. Smell, thick in his nose—skin, sweat, musk,
cologne, the smell of humans being monstrous. He didn’t even think about it
much, he’d always known something like this was waiting for him. Whit was gone
and he had no one to protect him and he couldn’t do it on his own.
"Here."
Clark took the folded bills and tucked them in his pocket. He waited until the
man was gone. More if he swallowed. He shoved the bills down tight into a knot.
More if he swallowed. His stomach flipped, and his mouth filled with acid. He
swallowed hard. Fingered the bills. Clean clothes, a shower…hot food, and a
place to sit and eat it…he licked his lips.
There was a diner next to the Good Will on the next block….
                                  [img-thing]
Days stacked up, he thought less and less, performed movement by rote—cup, beg,
sandwich, cup, beg sandwich, follow one suit or another into the dark under
stairs, in alleys.
Pass the phones and long for the sound of his mother's voice and wait for the
ghost fangs to eat at him to rip him open and rub in salt—they didn’t really
want you they have what they want now they don’t need you everyone who wanted
you is dead, save them from you—
On and on until finally, his body’s demand for sleep dragged him out of the
world, so tired, he wanted to cry and no energy to spare for it. He crawled
into the basement of a building made of piss, or it smelled like it was. The
concrete was gritty and cold and felt damp, untouched by the summer heat
outside. Didn’t matter, he rolled into as small a ball as he could, and waited
for sleep. All he needed was a quick nap. Five minutes, he’d sleep for five
minutes….
Get up Kal. Do something. You’re going to die. Do something Kal, you’re going
to die.
I don’t care, Whitney’s gone. I want to be gone too.
No, you don’t that’s not you speaking. There’s something bad inside of you.
You’re going to die. Whitney’s going to kill you.
Clark jerked awake, flailing against some monster pressed against him, trying
to run its claws into his head. He flung himself upright, his pack skittering
away from him. He couldn’t do this anymore; he needed more, safe, a place he
could really sleep. He crawled after his pack, and pulled it open. The inside
pocket held the lipstick, his pictures, and a little packet of aspirin. He
ripped open the pack and swallowed the pills, grimaced. Whit always had the
coated ones…he sat and cried, shocked that there were any tears left at all.
***** Chapter 13 *****
 [img-thing]
Lucas walked unannounced into Lex's office, and cursing, threw a folder and a
disc case onto his desk. He tore the dark purple tie he wore out of his collar
and tossed it at the couch, just missing Lex's lap. Lex frowned slightly,
watching Lucas' dramatic entrance from the couch.
His brother was sketch of black and gray and purple… his style. On Lucas it
made him look like a cheap Hollywood mobster. Lex found that rather…endearing.
He liked that the boy was trying so hard.
"Lex—" Lucas had his back to him. His hands were on the edge of the desk, his
head was bowed and from his body language, Lex would guess that some of the
cockiness had very recently been knocked out of him, as unbelievable as it
might seem. Lex smirked. It appeared Lucas was going to have to reach into his
‘shut up' fund a little sooner than he expected…he turned his attention back to
business, dismissing Lucas' theatrics.
"My God…Lex…" He sounded…haunted. Frightened? Lex glanced up, at first annoyed,
his first thought being that he might be forced to deal personally with some
outraged girl's—or boy's—parents, or God forbid, the police. But when he met
Lucas' eyes, he knew, whatever it was had rocked the boy to the core. "What's
wrong—Lucas, what's wrong?"
Lucas was white as a sheet; his eyes were huge and frightened. "You know, I
thought the worst thing about that man was that he was an abrasive fuck with a
twisted sense of humor…but to find out that he was a monster…"
What in the world had Lucas found? What could that old bastard have kept? What
kind of records…Lex felt ill. It wasn't outside of the realm of possibility
that Lionel would have kept records of…things past. Lex pushed Lucas into the
chair at the desk. "Sit; let me get you a drink. You look like you could use
something strong." He splashed a little brandy into a glass for Lucas and
watched him take a deep gulp, and gasp.
"God, that's so—awful." Lucas shook his head, breathed through his mouth.
"No it's not," Lex said soothingly, and gently took the glass from Lucas'
fingers, "you're just a prole. Now—what is it that has you so on edge?"
"Lionel was conducting human experiments. All that amazing breakthrough in the
pharm division?" He waved his hand toward the few slim cases scattered over the
desk surface. "That is why."
Lex slowly let himself down in the chair facing the desk. Whatever it was that
could rock a borderline sociopath like Lucas had to be even worse than he could
imagine. Lex opened the folder. It held a few photographs. It took him a moment
to understand what he was looking at, and it still seemed—fantastic.
Impossible. "Please tell me you're fucking with me." But the words were
automatic. He knew without a doubt that what Lucas said was true and these were
undoctored photos and how horrible was it that he didn't doubt for one minute
that his dad was capable of…this. He'd had the proof himself for years…he
licked his lip. "He was insane. How did we not know how insane he was?"
Lucas closed his eyes and shook his head. "I wish, I wish…" he opened one eye
and asked in a shaky voice and an attempt at a leer, "You did say fucking with
me, not fucking me—"
"Okay, I see you're feeling better. There's more, isn't there? Show me."
Lucas hesitated—slid his coat off and took something from an inside pocket.
Another disc. "Start with the discs on the desk first. You're not going to
believe what's he's done…" he flipped the disc in his hand one over and over in
his fingers, and finally set it down. "When you're done with those, this is the
one you need to see. And Lex…I really do love you. I mean, just for being my
brother. I appreciate everything you've done for me. Don't ever doubt it.
Honestly."
                                  [img-thing]
Lex watched the young boy on the screen cry…arms and legs strapped to the table
he laid face down on. He laughed quietly and Lucas looked at him in startled
shock. Lex shrugged, sipped at his glass. It was ironic—he'd been on tables
like that voluntarily. He tilted his head, and watched the boy jerk and howl.
Bled a lot less, though.
In this particular sequence they were taking samples: blood, skin, bone marrow.
Other sequences recorded his reactions to various stimuli. The recordings
showed events of different days and it went on and on…
Lucas smoked a thin cigar, his eyes narrowed against the smoke, but
unwaveringly on Lex.
"Don't smoke in here, please," Lex sighed and waved his hands. "I don't
understand. Why don't I remember any of this?" He muttered. "It's like watching
it happen to a stranger."
Lucas raised an eyebrow. "I don't know, but isn't the proper response, "thank
fuck I don't remember any of this"—oh shit. I didn't watch this far."
Lex sat frozen in the chair, his hands like claws in the arms, raking across
the leather hard enough to leave marks. "That explains why I don't remember,"
he said quietly.
The thin bony body strapped down on the table writhed, ribs lifting with the
effort to scream loud—loud, until a block of rubber was jammed between
its—his—teeth and then he arched and arched on the table—the snap of breaking
bone could clearly be heard. "Ah."
"God damn it. God...I was seven years old and whining that we couldn't afford a
game player like my friends had while you were getting…" Lucas looked at Lex
and said reverently, "And to think I used to be jealous of you."
"Shut up Lucas." Lex felt long slow shivers run through him. "I'm so glad he's
dead, because I'd have to kill him, I'd have to kill him so it hurt."
Lucas leaned over and smashed the cigar out in a decorative dish. He sprawled
against the arm of the couch and stretched his arm along the back; let his knee
touch Lex's. Lex shifted, swatted Lucas' questing finger from the side of his
head. Lucas smirked and said, "You're missing the point here, Lex-Lex; you're
one of those freaks too. You see? "
"Thank you. See yourself out and ask Benton to shoot you in the head, will you,
I'll be busy here…."
"Ha. I mean whatever makes you different, Lionel knew. It must have had some
value too—you're still alive." He grinned at Lex's raised eyebrow. "After all,
he had a backup—he didn't need you anymore, and in some ways, I'm more like
dear old dad than you. I don't have as much difficulty seeing that the ends can
justify the means. You, you worry too much. Who's it going to hurt, what impact
will this decision have—blah, blah, blah. You know, life is much simpler when
you reduce it to one basic law—want, take,have. Simple."
Lex opened his mouth, shut it. He frowned. "That's psychotic—and strangely
familiar. Besides I spent too much of my life doing that, just batting between
events like a pinball machine. I let things happen to me, told myself I wanted
it like that, because I was trained to it. You, Lucas Luthor, are one fortunate
motherfucker. Never forget that."
Lucas stared at him; Lex could feel his eyes on him. "I know," he whispered. "I
said that once tonight. I've said it every time I think about that thing…" he
reached over Lex, shut the laptop, and laid his hand on Lex's. "I hate that I'm
a part of that old bastard," Lucas squeezed Lex's hand. "For more than one
reason. But I'll never try to hurt you. Ever."
Lex smiled and nodded, and Lucas stood. He put his coat back on, smiled down at
Lex. "That's not to say I won't—but trust me, I won't mean to."
"God, you are such a fucking…I have no words." He pointed at Lucas. "I'm not
kidding, Benton is armed."
                                  [img-thing]
Clark worked his way from the station farther into the city, where the
factories and porn shops and abandoned buildings gave way to shabby
neighborhoods, not new and not particularly clean, but behind these doors were
real places to live, and on these streets were shops, and real food…he stared
into the big plate glass window of a grocery store, Harmon Fresh Food painted
on the glass in an old-fashioned type face. Stacked boxes of green and cream
lettuce, pyramids of blood red tomatoes and yellow onions and piles of bright
cucumbers, snap peas. His eyes filled with the sight, his chest tightened. No
limp leaves, no watery spots of decay, not fuzzed over with mold. Glistening,
ripe and perfect—everything that was coming up in his mom's garden right now,
and it was all fresh and crisp, and his mouth was watering. He caught sight of
a scrawny kid with black shadows were his eyes should be in the glass—
He backed away, feeling unclean, inhuman.
A thin bent woman pushed through the open doorway, struggling with a fabric
sack of groceries. Clark didn't stop to think, he offered to help, like he'd
been taught, the way it was expected of him.
The woman stopped, eyed him suspiciously—her narrow grey eyes searched his, her
thin pale lips tightened and turned down, and Clark remembered what he looked
like.
"Sorry." He backed away and the woman gestured impatiently. "Well, I haven't
got all day," and held her bag out imperiously.
Clark waffled for a moment, and smiled slowly, took the bag. "Where do you
live, ma'am?"
"Follow me," she demanded.
By the time they made it up the stuffy narrow stairs of a building long past
its prime, Clark learned that she'd been a widow for years now, and that she'd
been an elementary school teacher but now of course retired, she expected the
summer to be vicious, that he was not to expect a tip. Her door closed on him
holding three dollars and a couple of apples.
He walked back to the store, and waited.
"Can I help you take those? Do you need a hand? Sure, I can carry all that."
                                  [img-thing]
"Kid, you need to get the fu—heck out from in front of my store and stop
bothering my customers."
That was the first thing I said to the kid. He looked back at me from big
stunned eyes. God, he was just—what the hell was this kid doing wandering
around loose, I remember thinking. That, and there was no way he was going to
last more than a few minutes on the street.… "Go tell your parents to raise
your allowance and leave my customers alone," I said, and he blushed, and
looked away. At that blush…that blush…I knew but I said it anyway. "Beat it,
you go home."
The kid nodded, looking like a fu—frigging boy-scout poster. "Yes sir." He
said, "Can I have a job?"
Right? Telling you. Balls. "What?" I say, "Job?" Nods again, like one of them
bouncy head dolls, fucking ugly things. "I'm not afraid to work. And I'm a lot
stronger than I look. I can unload trucks and sweep and stock shelves and—and
deliver groceries. And—and—anything. My…my mom is sick, and we need the extra
money…" The kid flinched, and that bright—something, the light in his eyes,
dulled a bit when he said that. He was lying about the mom, and not lying about
the ‘anything' but he broadcast wholesome like—like fu—frigging Opie Taylor. He
was staring holes into me, it was crazy—there was something in his eyes,
something that made my mouth open without my brain and say "yes."
Yes. Can you believe it? The kid looked like he'd been sleeping under a bench
for days, and probably was doing God knows what—but I'm stupid or something. It
turned out good, in a way…kind of. Kind of. But he was respectful, a good kid,
and the customers loved him, and he just kind of shined, most days, I mean.
Some days, well…you know what old people called the black dog? It followed him
all right, you could see him all hunched over, like he was waiting for it to
eat him alive. Poor kid.
I wonder…I hope, if he thinks of me, he remembers only that I tried to help
him, and that anything else was my fault.
Poor kid.
                                  [img-thing]
Clark felt that at last, some good had fallen into his life. He had a job, a
real job. He worked hard, but that was good. He did what he told Mr. Harmon he
would. He swept up and stocked shelves. He washed the big plate glass windows,
washed and swept the stair and sidewalk. He loved setting out the fresh fruits
and vegetables, and at the end of the day, anything past prime, he got to take,
packed the rest for shelters he couldn't stay at. He had to avoid them because
The Man could be anywhere in those places.
In the evening, he told Mr. Harmon good night, and walked until he found his
spot for the night. Sometimes, he stayed in the all-night laundromat a few
blocks over. He could throw his clothes in a machine and doze in one of the
plastic chairs lined against the wall, his pack behind his legs under the
chair. Sometime, he talked to the other patrons. There was a woman they just
called Duck Lady. Most of the time, she talked quietly to herself, but
sometimes, she'd have vocal and bitter arguments with the invisible duck living
on her head and violently argue with patrons she suspected of taking the Duck's
side in whatever incomprehensible disagreement they were having that night. And
in moments of total weirdness, he'd actually have lucid and strangely
entertaining conversations with her.
There were other people he talked to, but he had his favorites—Rennie, who was
a secretary once, before it all got to be too much for her and she decided to
retire from the world…Frank, who lectured Clark endlessly about the perils of
life on the street. He'd been a hustler when he was young, and now he claimed
to be a writer, like some guy Frank claimed was famous, but whose name Clark
could never remember…. by the look of Frank, he wasn't nearly as successful as
Famous Guy. Clark always listened, smiled and nodded and Frank always had
candy, or an extra cup of coffee to share with him—Frank was a good guy. Rennie
brought him cookies sometimes. Clark wondered just how different than the
people who came in the day his friends were. Some people were a little scary,
some were just sad…kids would come in and sometime, he'd give them change to
wash their stuff if he had extra, or enough to get something out of the vending
machines….
If the laundromat was crowded, Clark had other places he could stay. He knew he
could stay at the convenience store on First Street, the manager kept a couch
in the back office. He'd have to blow him first, so that was a last choice
place. But if the laundromat was closed, and it was cold or raining, or he just
couldn't stomach sleeping in the street, the store was there.
                                  [img-thing]
"Clark, where do you go when you leave here?" Mr. Harmon asked, and oddly,
blushed.
"Our place isn't far from here," Clark said easily, eyes on the pyramid of
grapefruit he was carefully stacking.
"Well, can we have telephone number, kid? We always ask—for emergency contact,"
Mr. Harmon asked, and resettled his thick framed glasses on the bridge of his
nose.
"My mom can't afford one—"
Mr. Harmon held up his hand. "Spare me—you're not staying with parents—or any
adult, are you?"
Clark debated telling him he did stay with adults—the Duck Lady and Rennie and
Frank at the Laundromat were adults, it wouldn't really be lying, would it? He
stopped trying to arrange citrus, and looked at Mr. Harmon, just— really looked
at him. "Why?"
"I—I got a room. You can use the room. Okay. The extra room. If you want.
And…just bring your stuff. And stop asking me questions. Yap, yap yap, that's
all you do. It's crazy making. More working less talking," he barked, and
stomped away.
Clark grinned after him, grapefruit forgotten in his hand. He thought for one
shining moment—safe—safe again—and then sank back into the black wave. Knew it
was wrong to do this to Mr. Harmon, he was a nice guy….
"Listen," Clark said, later that evening, while he was sweeping up and Mr.
Harmon was doing paperwork. "I can't. I can't stay with you. I'm not the person
you think I am. I…I'm not the right kind of person…" Clark wound down. How
could he explain the things he'd done? He wanted Mr. Harmon to like him. And he
wanted to keep his job.
"What the hell, am I a priest? Jesus. Get your stuff. And just in case you
think I host charity cases—I'll want rent."
Clark looked at him, puzzled, but decided that he'd better shut up and get his
stuff. "It's in the back, by the freezer."
"What? That fu—freakin' little bag is all? Fine. Here. Go home." He handed
Clark a key. "Two doors down, two flights up and to the left. My place."
                                  [img-thing]
Clark and Mr. Harmon—Eric—fell into an easy, comfortable routine. Clark rose
before Eric most days, and made breakfast, and tried not to think how good it
was to do that, how much he missed his mom and dad, how much he wished he could
tell Whitney how nice it was to stay with Eric. Clark worked all day at the
store and came home and took a hot shower, used lots of soap, and did that
every day like clockwork. Every shower was like a dream. Every evening Mr.
Harmon came in and Clark would be damp, clean and smiling, dressed in clean
clothes, content. Clark marveled that he had his own place, a table to put his
pictures on, a bed, with sheets and a thick blanket, and a pillow like a cloud.
He had a lamp to read as long into the night as he wanted to and the luxury of
money to buy books, or clothes, second hand but clean and comfortable and
nothing else mattered…he almost began to forget the street.
 
Clark swept the broom over the brick insert at the front of the store, pushed a
thick fall of yellow, spear-shaped leaves along. They rustled dryly under the
broom straw, a little wind swirled them over his feet before leaving them to
settle and a painful awareness rose in his heart—September. It was already
September. Four months had passed. Four months since he'd heard his parent's
voices, smelled his mom's perfume, since he'd been hugged, been told he was
loved….
Four months since Whit died. He still saw him, heard him. Whit's voice was
clear in his head, the way he smelled still clear in his mind. Whit's jacket
hung in the closet in his room. He didn't need to carry it with him anymore. He
had the ring, and Whit in his mind, he carried Whit with him everywhere. The
jacket could stay home. Safe.
Eric was a hell of a guy, Clark thought. He treated him like a friend—in the
weird way he had, Clark thought Eric really liked him. Mrs. Smith said so. Mrs.
Smith was one of the smartest people he'd ever met. The day he'd carried her
groceries home for the first time, had been the best day of his life. He'd met
two of the best friends you could ask for, his boss and his customer. Mrs.
Smith was good to talk to, and she was full of good advice…and Clark was very,
very careful about what he talked to her about. How he acted. She might be old,
but she was sharp, and very observant. More than once he'd seen her studying
him, watching him. Smiling to herself.
Eric was easier; he could be more himself around him because Eric was in a
state of constant pre-occupation, always on the edge of taking off. He seemed
perpetually grouchy, most of that was the way he talked. He was an impatient
guy, true, but when Clark wanted to talk, he stopped, and listened, and that
was nice. He was a pretty good guy, all right.
 
They were camped out in the living room, the same as almost every evening—Eric
was reading the paper, and Clark sat on the floor, reading. Eric looked up, and
said, "Are your people looking for you?"
Clark froze. "I—I—"
"See, I was thinking your parents, well, they might want to know you're safe.
Oh shit. Did they kick you out? Damn, if they kicked you out, I'm sorry—and
forget it. Okay, you know what, forget I said anything—I didn't say anything.
God damn. I need a coke." He dropped the paper. "Clark."
Clark stared at Eric, marveling at his meltdown "Ye-es?" He waited, fidgeted
with the edge of his book.
"Never mind."
Clark waited.
"Clark—never—"
"Eric, you can ask, it's okay."
"Oh! Oh, I kinda thought I wasn't supposed to ask—code of the street
or—whatever." He shoved his glasses so far up his nose, Clark was afraid he
might slam them through his forehead.
"Em, I think that's prison—you know, don't ask what you're in for? I mean, they
say that in the movies, I've never been in prison."
He stared at Clark over his glasses and scratched his fingers through his short
graying hair. "Prison? Who's talking about prison? Prison." He shook his head,
and flipped the paper back up.
"Eric?"
"Hmm?" he grunted, behind the wall of newsprint.
"My folks aren't monsters. They…tried really hard, I guess. But my boyfriend
died, and I couldn't be there anymore. It was…a strange town."
Eric folded the paper. Blushed a little and said. "I see." He took his glasses
off, played with them. Clark watched him, he could see the wheels in Eric's
head turning, saw that he wanted to ask, saw the moment he decided not to.
"Does knowing that about me bother you? Me being…gay, I mean." Clark held his
breath.
"No, no. I'm…I'm not bothered by it. How could I be? But it doesn't change
anything here. Okay, now I want coffee. There's the phone. If you want to let
your folks know you're safe—call. And you are safe, don't doubt that." He
stomped off, and stopped. Turned. "Call. I'll just deduct it from your
paycheck," he said and left the room.
Clark grinned.
                                  [img-thing]
Clark didn't call home then, he didn't call in October.
He bought too much candy to drop in bags on Halloween night. He stood on the
step, gave out candy and commented on every costume and Eric grouched about it
in the background. The little kids at the door, all bright eyed and dressed in
their dreams made Clark think of himself and Pete, dressed alike and absolutely
certain no one could tell them apart. He watched mothers pushing their bundled
up and costumed babies in their strollers and thought about Smallville.
Clark stacked red and yellow and acid green apples in their green cases, misted
them, smelled them and thought about his mom making apple pies to sell at the
Harvest Fest. His dad standing around with his buddies, at the classic car
tent, swapping lies and laughing, taking a rare break to just have a little
fun. Thought about how much he missed his dad's laugh and his mom's hug….
Eric watched him, and looked unhappy. Clark tried to tell him that he was fine,
and that he was happy. Eric just looked grumpy and unconvinced. Clark shrugged
and gave him the rent for October.
In November, he called just to hear their voices. He held the phone and
listened to his mother answer. "Hello? Hello?" silence and then, a small
hopeless sound. "Clark…?" He held his breath and after a long moment, the phone
disconnected. Afterward he sat in his room, and tried not to cry.
November, Eric brought home a turkey, and complained bitterly that they didn't
make small birds and why not? "What the hell, right? What have they got against
bachelors, Clark? I'm asking—not everyone wants to eat turkey for the rest of
their goddamn lives, right?" He bent over to put the bird in the fridge, his
long thin frame bending like he had a hinge at his waist. Clark smiled, he
looked like a crane. A cute crane.
Eric dug through a sack on the kitchen table, and pulled out a can. He asked
tentatively, "I bought cranberries, y'know, the not solid kind? Do you—would
you eat them?"
Clark nodded and smiled, "Sure, I really like them that way," and Eric looked
so happy Clark felt horrible.
Thanksgiving dinner was great, and he brought the leftovers to the laudromat,
and had dinner again with his friends.
Clark thanked Eric, hugged him and gave him the rent for November.
At the end of November, he made a friend. A guy, who was cute, and fun, and
Clark shocked himself by admitting he liked him. Quite a bit. Jake came around
from time to time, and always bought oranges. Always, with whatever else he
bought, he always got a half dozen oranges, and after a while, Clark
automatically added the six oranges to whatever order Jake had. He liked
looking at him, and the way Jake smiled at him made him blush, and then Jake
would laugh—quietly, almost under his breath, like it was a private joke
between the two of them. One day, he surprised Clark by buying seven oranges.
That was the day Clark learned his name—when he tossed the extra orange to
Clark and said, "I'm Jake, hello."
Clark had plucked the orange out of the air with a smile and thanked him.
Watched Jake walk all the way down the block.
Jake was like a tornado. Whenever he came into the shop, Clark felt a little
breathless. He couldn't help but watch him, eyes wide, and mouth parted, trying
to breathe, trying not to be swept up and failing. Clark envied Jake. He was
everything Clark wasn't, cheerful, outgoing, so funny. He was blonde like Whit,
but small, like a reed. He always stopped for Clark, spent a few minutes
talking to him, giving him attention that Clark felt was his alone.
"Clark, honey, oh my gosh, eat something sometime, why don't you? Gosh, have
you heard of button downs—get this—they're shirts you don't pull over your
head—shocking, I know!" But when Jake said it, it was kidding teasing; Clark
liked to pretend it meant he really cared. "You know, you're a very pretty
boy—he is, isn't he?" He asked whoever happened to be close and nod when they
agreed as if they had to. Clark felt full whenever Jake was around; being near
him was like having the best meal ever. Jake was—amazing.
After dinner one night, while washing dishes together, Eric asked him if Jake
had ‘made a move'. "Here," he said, and handed Clark a dripping plate. "You
need some kind of social life, Clark. All these old ladies, and the crazy—I
mean the eccentric people at the laundromat—these are not the kind of friends
you need at your age. Mrs. Smith says you need to date. And she knows a nice
boy…" Clark grabbed the plate and wiped vigorously. Blushed bright red from
hairline to collarbone. "I—no, Jake hasn't said anything, and no, I don't want
Mrs. Smith to pick my dates."
"Well. Listen, I know you like Jake, but...I'm telling you, watch yourself with
him. Oh, he's a cute kid and all, but…just be careful. All I'm sayin'."
Clark felt a quick flash of rage that startled and scared him. A voice in his
head shouted who does he think he is? How dare he—and Clark swallowed hard, and
stared at his plate. "Sure, I hear you," he mumbled, embarrassed by his
reaction to Eric's well-meant warning.
When Jake asked him to the movies one evening, Clark felt that a little extra
bit of good had fallen into his life, at a point where he was drowning in his
darkness. Movies, concerts, even the museums, bit by bit, Jake filled a little
of the pit in his soul.
 
Clark was jittering by the phone, bouncing the howling baby against his
shoulder and wondering if he should call his mom, but Cara suddenly stopped
crying, and was trying to pull his hair instead. Okay, you little pooping
eating machine, is everything better now?
She grinned, and popped a milky bubble at him. He laughed back; she looked so
pleased with herself. Her bright blue eyes danced, her red hair sparkled in the
afternoon light and she was all together the prettiest baby in the world and he
told her so. Good thing I'm so big—I'll have to protect you from all the boys
that are going to try to get next to you.
He joggled her on his shoulder, and looked for the little pink urpie cloth to
wipe her mouth and a sound at the door stopped him and made Buddy launch
himself from under the kitchen table and fly at the back door.
Hey, crazy mutt.
Clark looked up as a duffle bag flew in and landed in the entrance way, and the
screen door banged as Whit stepped through, still in uniform and looking pretty
darn good. Cara let out an excited little laugh and waved her arms, Clark
grinned. Of course she thought Whit looked good too.
Hey. How's my favorite baby, Whit called out, arms open, and Clark lifted an
eyebrow.
Favorite baby?
Oh wow, you're right; I don't want Cara getting jealous. He took the baby, and
kissed Clark. Clark closed his eyes, let his lips part and Whit tipped his chin
up. Clark sighed and…
Remembered.
"Oh, oh no, Whitney…"
He woke up drowning in tears, thrashing in the tight hold of his twisted
sheets, his heart hammering in his chest. It hurt, it hurt so much, and it
wasn't fair, it wasn't fucking fair. He didn't do anything; it wasn't his fault
so why was he getting punished?
"Clark—"
Clark froze—who was calling him?
Eric burst into the room, hair wild, expression wild "—what's wrong? What are
you yelling at?"
He saw Clark's wet face and calmed a little. "What happened?" he asked softly.
Clark noticed Eric had a bat in his hand and for some reason, it made him
giggle. The laughter veered out of control and then suddenly he was hunched
over on the side of his bed, crying—
"Hey, kid." Eric dropped the bat and sat on the bedside, threw an arm around
Clark. "What's the matter kid, you had a bad dream?" Clark nodded and Eric
sighed. "Yeah, I get them too sometimes. They stink. You want some water, or
some…tea or something?"
Clark shook his head again, and leaned a little harder against Eric, let his
knees drop open and touch Eric's leg. Sighed, and turned just enough that his
head was pressed against Eric's neck. Tilted until his mouth was resting
against a thudding pulse under the soft skin. His hand was pressed against
Eric's chest and Clark felt his heartbeat thunder.
"Unh…Clark, what the fuck are you doing…" he stuttered, but he didn't move so
Clark slipped his hand between Eric's legs, felt the unmistakable evidence that
his presence was having an effect. Clark pressed his palm over Eric's dick, and
squeezed. Eric groaned and pushed into it—moaned and it sounded so loud. Clark
felt him swell under his palm, felt him twitch when his fingers slid into the
gap in Eric's pajama bottoms. Eric jerked, gasped—and grabbed Clark's wrist,
hard, hard enough to hurt. "What the fuck are you doing?" he rasped, and the
uncomfortable grip on Clark's wrist shook. "Fuck—stop that."
Clark fell back, yanked his hand away. "I was only trying to—to thank you—I
thought you liked me." He glared at Eric, angry, embarrassed—and hurt. And just
a tiny bit relieved.
"God damn it, Clark. I do like you, but… ah fuck." Eric jumped up and hit the
wall, leaned against it. "Clark. You are a child. I am a grown man, old enough
to be your father, and if I hadn't stopped you…God." He rubbed his face.
"Fuck."
Clark bit his lip and felt driven to try again. "Are you afraid of hurting me?
Because you know I've done this before. It's not a big deal. And I like you."
"Kid, I like you too. And that has a not a damn thing to do with this."
Clark fell back on the bed. "I had a dream about my boyfriend. It was so real.
I even dreamt my mom had a baby, a girl. It was like really being home. I was
in the kitchen and he walked in, and-and hugged me, ki-kissed me—" Tears pushed
out from under tightly closed lids. "I wish that I could turn back time. I
wish…none of this had ever happened. Maybe, I'd be happy." He lifted his hand
to his mouth, stared at the ring, turned the stone to his palm and pressed it
to his lips until it was warm as skin.
"Clark. Maybe you need a little help. Y'know, like people to talk to, right?
You need to go back home, and be a kid and…shit. Be home." Eric sighed and sat
again. "Call your parents finally, why don't you? And don't fucking play me off
this time, huh? Or if you're that afraid to talk to them, maybe call your
boyfriend's parents…"
Clark felt as if he'd been punched in the throat. Whit's parents.
The thought of them was like a dash of ice water in the face. Brought him back
to reality, and the realization of the ugly thing he'd almost done to Eric made
his blood run cold. He jerked upright. "I'm sorry. I do understand. I put you
in a bad position. I won't do it again. Promise."
Clark knew the time had come to move on. He'd been lucky, luckier than he
deserved. He wouldn't hurt Eric like that again.
Eric looked so sad. "I'd be lying if I didn't say that living with you is
messing with my head. Yeah, you're a good looking guy—fuck that, you're fucking
unbelievably beautiful. You're like—damn. But thing is, I have a son your age,
and I don't need the law to tell me it's wrong."
It surprised Clark a lot to hear that Eric had family—a son. He wondered what
had happened. Found it was easy for him to imagine Eric with a family. Sort of.
"You had a wife?"
"Yes, I had a wife. You don't have to look so surprised; the friggin' world is
full of people who found out they made a mistake too damn late. No good to
realize just how gay you are, after. And in case you're wondering—she's a bitch
on wheels." He nodded at Clark's startled laughter. "Oh, yeah, no Lifetime
movie here, no broken hearts and tragic tears. That bitch is the reason why I'm
here in the buttcrack of the country instead of back in New Jersey, where
people know how to act."
Clark barked out a laugh again. "Buttcrack? Hey, this is Metropolis; we're
almost as big as New York."
"Yeah, and nowhere as exciting. Oh well. I left Jersey because I needed as much
country between myself and that bitch as I could get. And she—makes sure I
can't see my kid. I fell in love with the wrong person, met another one just as
wrong and. I just needed to breathe," he sighed. He grinned a little at Clark.
"You see how that worked out. Alone, in Kansas, getting old and ugly. And
forgotten by my kid. Yeah, I'm just the fucking guy that sends him cards and
money…" He made a movement to shove up glasses, "Shit." He made an aborted
movement towards his nose again.
Clark smiled. "You're not old, and you're not ugly. You just need to let
yourself…look at the world, Eric."
"Great. Look who's telling me how to live."
"Screw you."
"See," he said. "There you go—you're almost Jersey."
He turned to walk out of the room and Clark said quietly, "The way you are to
me…if you're even half that way with your kid, than he hasn't forgotten you.
He'll find a way to see you. You'll find a way."
Eric didn't turn back. "Yeah maybe, kid. G'night."
                                  [img-thing]
Clark asked Jake one afternoon if he'd like to go Christmas shopping with him.
Jake looked pleased.
"Let me think, do I want to be seen with the prettiest boy in Metropolis? " He
made a show of thinking, and then hit Clark. "Stupid. Where do we go first? Let
me guess—looking for a present for Mr. Bossman…and I have just the thing!"
Clark found out that shopping with Jake was like swimming
upstream—exhilarating, and exhausting. Jake pulled him in and out of a dozen
stores, most of them way over Clark's limited means, but Clark bought Eric a
nice scarf, and managed to keep Jake from paying for that or a dozen other
things he found.
"Don't worry, sweetie, I have an account at most of these stores. He flashed a
deck of plastic, and laughed at Clark's wide eyes. "I'm set—a least let me buy
us lunch?"
The little restaurant they ate at was warm and cozy, with thick chairs and
doll-size tables, and giant menus and Clark noticed, while the description of
the food was paragraphs long and breathlessly excited, there were no prices. He
glanced at Jake.
"Shh! Chose! Eat!" he made a complicated hand movement that ended with his
fingertips pressed against Clark's mouth. "Just enjoy it, baby," he said again,
softer, slower, and Clark blushed…right down to his toes, he was willing to
bet.
                                  [img-thing]
They walked along, dodging slush and piles of grimy snow. Their breath puffed
out into the chily air. Jakes eyes looked even bluer above his bright pink
cheeks. Clark thought he looked adorable. Like one of Santa's elves, only
sexier than any elf could possibly be. "Thanks for lunch, I'm so full I can
hardly waddle," he laughed. "How do you know all these places, Jake? Are your
parent's rich?"
Jake stopped and pulled Clark to face him, leaned against his thin frame. He
tilted his head back and smiled. "How old do you think I am, Clark?"
Clark blushed shrugged. "My age, I guess?"
"I'm twenty two, sweet. I'm probably closer to—two? Three years older than
you?" He chuckled. "I've been on my own a long time, babe."
Clark thought about telling him the truth, but if he did, Jake wouldn't want to
see him again, and suddenly seeing Jake was the most important thing he could
imagine in all the world.
Jake held his hand and walked briskly, their bags hitting them in the legs.
"Are you hungry, Clark? We didn't get dessert." They passed displays of fruits
and Christmas greenery outside of stores all along the sidewalk.
"A little," he lied.
Jake said, "Okay, cool," and grabbed two apples from a stand; he tossed Clark
one, took a huge, crunchy, juice filled bite, chewed, swallowed and yelled,
"Run! "
Clark gawked at him, frozen in place as Jake dashed up the street. A shout
behind him electrified him—jolted him into taking off after Jake before running
after, as fast he could. Jake ran without looking behind, laughing like crazy.
Clark ran after, followed Jake until they were blocks away—caught up with him
in an alley, fallen back against a wall and gasping for breath.
"Jake! You stole! For fun!" Every bit of his Jonathan Kent-raised and
Smallville reinforced values was outraged—every cell vibrated in horror.
"I know—it's awful! But every once in a while, don't you feel like being
completely naughty, Clark?" He looked at Clark, and there was something in his
eyes that made Clark blush and look away.
Jake laughed that soft quiet private laugh, and touched Clark's cheek. "I can
see you do…"
                                  [img-thing]
Lex and Lucas stood side by side between a bank of ten feet tall Christmas
trees decked out in white lights and red and white ornaments. Both of them
silently watched the ebb and flow of the crowds from the upper level of the
ballroom of the Ambassador Hotel. Their postures were identical, arms crossed,
nearly identical sneers. Both of them dressed in black, red brocade vests a nod
to the theme and the season. Lex's eyes were locked on the dance floor below;
Lucas' were locked on Lex, watching every slight flex of muscle in his face,
his expression mirroring every one of Lex's. Lex licked his lip, tongue tip
touching lightly on a faint scar there and slipping back. Lucas inhaled, his
eyes closed, slowly and completely, like a lizard's….
The ballroom was transformed into a fairyland, a designer vision of Santa's
North Pole. The Metropolis Hospital White and Red ball was an annual event the
Luthor family had contributed to for years…ever since Lionel made his first
real money in the city. Lex had been attending, starting with the Children's
Ball, since he was nine—the first year he'd lost all his hair, the year he felt
like a freak, when all he'd wanted to do was hide from everyone. Lionel told
him it would help him heal, that he needed to come out of the shell he'd built.
Funny man, Dad.
This year was Lucas' second ball. He was slowly becoming more comfortable in
their world, especially since Lex shared a little trick of his for dealing with
crowds of strangers. "You remember that public speaker's trick—the one where
you imagine everyone but you is naked? With us, it's reality." Lex explained
that the probability was that they had dirt on nearly every one he'd ever have
to deal with. Some of it might have been manufactured by the Luthor's
themselves, but if you were stupid enough to walk into a trap….
Lionel's assistant, now Lucas', stood close to his side, muttering non-stop.
The man was like a walking, talking computer. There was nothing or no one he
didn't have information on, or would have in minutes. Lucas thought he was very
entertaining. Lex thought Lucas had god awful taste.
                                  [img-thing]
Lex was taking a final turn around the dance floor with some councilman's
daughter, and complementing her on her grace—he was going to hell for much
worse indiscretions, lying hardly mattered. She fit in his arms like a sack of
potatoes and Lucas came drifting up on his side, some lovely, vapid thing in
his embrace. He stated loudly, and clearly, "You're trying to make me jealous,
aren't you? Are you going to spend time with me too, or are you going to make
me beg for it?"
For a moment, the couple shared looks of confusion, uneasy befuddlement on the
girl's face, a dawning expression of anger on Lex's before Lucas said with a
mock pout, "Ellie, you are going to make me beg, aren't you?" The girl laughed
and Lex bit his lip—her name was Ellie? How did Lucas remember things like
that?
"Lucas, you're terrible," she giggled. "Of course I'll dance with you, if your
brother doesn't mind?" She simpered at Lex, and he assured her nothing would
make him happier. They switched partners; Lex danced his new partner to the
edge of the dance floor and made his excuses.
Free, he took a deep breath. For a minute or two, he could relax.
The washroom of the Ambassador's ballroom was luxurious, spacious and just
right to hide in. he was relaxing in the comfortable quiet, alone, thank god.
And of course Lucas walked in, eyes bright and a smirk bowing his lips. "So…
were you trying to make me jealous?" he drawled.
"God, you really are a freak. A tiresome freak at that." Lex dampened a towel
and patted his upper lip and brow.
"Speaking of freak—"Lucas laughed. "—guess who's here? Van Galletti and his
sister. And their date." He checked himself out in the mirrored wall, smoothing
his heavy eyebrows.
Lex started, paled. "You're kidding. What's he doing here?"
Lucas turned and leaned on the sink. "He and Dad did business. And it had to be
good to them—he's practically shoving his sister on my cock. He's hinting about
some deal they had. It's all I can do to avoid him. Shit. I have to find out if
Dom knows what their thing was."
"I'm surprised Dominic hasn't told you already." Lex grit his teeth, a chill
crawled up his spine.Van…Bobbi
"Dom—every once in a while I have to convince him to share stuff. I'll find out
what the fuck it is tonight. A Galletti...that's something to have in your
pocket, though."
"Having him in your pocket just puts him in position to eat your ass alive."
"I don't know if there's any bad in that, he's pretty hot."
"Umm." Lex walked to the door. "You coming?"
Lucas followed, and just before they walked out to the ballroom, he whispered
into the back of Lex's neck. "You know, we're only half brothers, and it's not
like we'll pass on any defective genes—unless you're that much a freak you can
get pregnant…"
"Oh, shut up please!"
 
They were on the edge of the dance floor now, and Lex could see the Galletti
twins standing opposite, a little blonde between them. Her right hand was on
Van Galletti's arm. The bracelet on her left wrist was twisted in Bobbi
Galletti's fingers. Lex licked suddenly dry lips, and had vague memories of
standing that very same way. He met Bobbi's eyes across the floor, and fought
to keep any expression from his face. She smiled, and slowly tightened her grip
on the bracelet, twisting tighter, the blonde's gasp of pain was obvious even
from where Lex stood. Truly, it was a wonder that their cloven footprints
didn't burst into flame behind them. He wondered what dear old dad had really
been doing with them, just how deep their business together ran….
***** Chapter 14 *****
 [img-thing]
 
Lucas and a bodyguard followed a twisted little man in an unfortunately pin-
striped suit to a heavily secured doorway on the lowest level of Cadmus Labs.
As they waited out the security check, he wondered if he should give the man
the name of Lex's tailor. He managed to make Lex look a lot less thin than he
really was—and made Lucas look a little less thuggish than he knew he looked.
Or maybe he should just suggest that the little man avoid stripes…
The heavy doors opened on the dim hall of Cadmus' Secure Testing Area. It had,
Lucas thought, all the ambience of a nineteenth century prison slash mental
ward. The doors the ‘clients' were behind were thick, and made of varying
materials: some steel, some wood, a few were thick slabs of clouded glass. They
guarded cells populated by people who looked perfectly normal, for the most
part. Some sat and stared at the floor, some raged at the doors, some looked
like they were perched on the edge of sanity. The cells were uniformly bare and
ugly, utilitarian and designed solely with ease of maintenance in mind.
The twisted little man led Lucas along, stopping from time to time to explain
what he was seeing.
"The doors are different, the cells comprised of differing materials depending
on what the occupants are capable of. All the occupants in this block are able
to manipulate the materials of their environment."
Lucas nodded, and made a mental note to grab all of the material and get Lex to
read it. And explain it to him.
"Other blocks hold—heh—shape shifters, mind manipulators. Mr. Luthor—the elder,
of course, rest his soul, made this facility to provide a place for these
unfortunates to live relatively safe and productive lives—"
"Yeah, my father was quite the philanthropist. So—what happens to these people?
Do you cure them?"
The man coughed out his dry little laugh again. "There's nothing to cure—these
individuals are what they are. These changes have become a fundamental part of
them. They define them. Young Mr. Kelvin here, his entire world revolves around
the search for heat—or did. Now, he's free. We provide him with all the heat he
needs. And in return, he contributes a little genetic material from time to
time."
With the memory of a young Lex screaming hopelessly crowding his thoughts,
Lucas peered into the glass door of the cell. A young man knelt on the floor
and talked to a heater taking up an entire corner of the cell. A cot festooned
with wires was in the other corner.
"He's an interesting specimen. His body temperature is not only abnormal, he's
able to—he must—absorb heat from other sources, from the heater, heh, from
people. We're trying to create an artificial form of his ability; a
controllable form. It'd be useful for soldiers or explorers in an artic
environment…"
"Yeah…yeah." He stared into the little bare cell, and watched the boy holding
an animated conversation with the heater. Fuck, Lex was going to lose his mind
when he saw this—if he saw this.
The twisted little man raised his head, and twitched a cold grimace he probably
thought was a smile. Lucas slipped a thin cigar out of his shirt pocket,
flicked open his lighter and lit the cigar before the man could object.
The flame danced, catching shreds of tobacco, and the strange boy's head
whipped around, his mouth wide and his eyes fixed on the flame. For a moment
Lucas was pleased beyond belief that there was a slab of five inch thick glass
between them….
"He's killed for warmth. He'd kill without thought for it."
Lucas met the boy's eyes, and nodded. "I see," he said and wondered what it was
dear old dad had really doing at Cadmus….
                                  [img-thing]
Clark made a decision. He needed his own place. He owed it to Eric. Besides,
Eric was going to ask him to leave soon any way. He could see it in the way he
wasn't looking directly at him anymore. It hurt, sure, but he got it, and he
wanted to spare Eric any more discomfort. It was Clark's fault, what happened,
and his call to fix it.
It took a few days of looking—and in that time, he discovered that it was
actually possible to find living quarters worse than the street. He'd seen
rooms that the memory of made his skin crawl….
 
He eventually found a room that was within his means—just. It wasn't a palace.
Frankly, it was about a step or two above the bus station stall and a whole
flight below what he had now, but sacrifices had to be made. That, he was
skilled at. Anyway, he owed Eric, and it wasn't that great a sacrifice. He
still had heat, and a safe place to lay his head…he eyed the march of deadbolts
down the door frame…hopefully.
The room was as wide as a closet; it had a sink and toilet, a hot plate, and a
little gasping, wheezing, box he figured had to be a fridge because the inside
was cold. Ish. There would be no boxes of frozen food here, Clark thought—or
ice cubes. He sighed. Mostly, it met his major requirements; he could afford
it, the landlord hadn't asked his age, or for ID, or for any information at
all. It had a bed. It had a private toilet. And as soon as he passed over his
paycheck, it was his.
                                  [img-thing]
Eric dithered and jittered, and did a lot more eyeglass shoving than usual and
Clark knew. This time with Eric had come to an end.
"Listen Clark, I've been talking to Mrs. Smith, um, she's got a room that she's
more than willing to let you…I'm sorry Clark. I'm. You-you understand, right?
You just…arg."
Clark took Eric's hand and squeezed it. "I was going to tell you that I found a
place of my own. And you don't have to worry—it's small, but it's clean it will
be anyway and not far, it's in walking distance of the job—" he stopped and
swallowed. "Eric, will I still have a job?"
"Stoop! Of course, as long as you want it. If I got rid of you, a ton of old
ladies would hang me in a friggin public square, and draw and quarter me, and
then spit on me. And then castrate me, and then—"
Clark was laughing. "I got it, I got it! Thank you." He smiled at Eric, and
then grabbed him, hugged him hard. "Thank you. You saved me."
Eric pushed his glassed back up his nose and after a moment, hugged Clark back.
"Yeah well, not so much but I'm glad I was able to help you. God damn, I'll
miss you here, but you'll see, this'll be a good thing for you."
                                  [img-thing]
Jake helped Clark move in, and argued with him the whole way. "Clark, this
place is really kind of disgusting. Why can't you move in with me? I have more
than enough room, you know. If you lived with me, you'd be able to save more
money too…listen. You're going to go home—ah-ah—shhh! Hear me out. You are
going to go home, and when you do, you're not going back shabby and smelling
like—poverty, hear me?"
He flagged a taxi while Clark concentrated on juggling bags and boxes, and
wondered how he'd accumulated so much in such a short time. When Jake prodded
him, he nodded to whatever Jake was saying. "Unh-hunh, yeah..." having no idea
what he was talking about, not that Jake seemed to notice.
They arrived at the address Clark had given Jake. Clark pointed to the narrow
alley between buildings, and a stairwell that went down to a basement. "It's
down there."
Jake screamed in horror. "Mother of god, Clark! I know you said basement
apartment, but you didn't say it was in Satan's basement! These stairs go right
into the bowels of Hell, my god!"
Clark ignored him, handed him a box with a smile. They walked down the long
flight of stairs. "Well, at least if there's a nuclear war, you and the
cockroaches will be safe," Jake groused. When Clark opened the door to the tiny
room, he gasped. "Oh my dear. You know I love you. Please. Please, Clark, come
live with me…I-I'll pay you!"
Clark just kept smiling at Jake as he unloaded a small bag of groceries on the
tiny table in front of the fridge. "It'll be fine. The landlord said I can do
what I want. A little paint, and maybe some flowers—it'll be nice."
Jake raised an eyebrow and snorted. Clark again ignored him. He began tucking
the food away into the little fridge and the cabinet over the little table that
held a hotplate.
"Sweet heart, you're making me cry…"
Finally Clark turned to Jake and pulled him close. "If I promise that I'll move
in with you if I can't stand it, will you stop whining about it?"
"I don't whine. And yes." He leaned against Clark, and Clark bit back a gasp.
Jake's eyes flared and he pressed himself against the length of Clark. "Clark,
I want to kiss you. Would you mind?"
"Um…I think…please."
Jake pulled Clark's head down, and his mouth covered Clark's. The heat and
tender press against Clark's mouth made him weak in the knees, so shaky he had
to hold himself up with a grip on Jake's shoulders…touch, warm and…touch, kiss
wet soft…Jake licked Clark's lips, his teeth, his tongue, sucked gently,
carefully at Clark's lower lip, alternating sucking and licking until Clark was
melting to the ground, bringing Jake with him…they settled on the kitchen floor
with Jake between his legs, and Clark was so hard, so ready he was afraid he
was going to come right there, just from that. Clark groaned, loudly,
frantically, grabbed Jake's hips and thrust against him and moaned again when
he felt how hard Jake was… "Oh hell, it's been such a long time…"
Jake pulled back, "Than let's not do this on the floor in our clothes, come
on…" he coaxed Clark to his feet, and led him to the bed. "Bring the sheets out
of the bag, babe, and we'll make the bed, and ruin it together." His smile was
so wicked, so hot it made Clark's gut tighten, fire filled him like it hadn't
in a long time.
"God, you have no idea, Jake. I haven't touched anyone in—forever. I haven't
been touched—" Clark threw the sheets on the bed, and told Jake, "I haven't
touched myself—" He stopped and blushed hard.
Jake stopped smoothing the sheets and stared at him. "Oh. Goodness. I'm glad I
stopped us, then. Strip," he demanded.
Clark nearly ripped his clothes off and Jake dropped the blanket to the floor.
His eyes danced over Clark, and lingered at his groin. "Oo-oh. I thought all of
you would be skinny…"
Clark blushed again, and made a move to cover himself, but Jake was right
there, and pulling his hands away, and leaning over him, breathing on his
sensitive dick, running his tongue under the foreskin and making Clark yelp.
Jake sucked right at the tip, and drilled the pointed tip of his tongue inside
the slit, pulled back "…you taste…different." His eyebrows furrowed and
suddenly cleared, "like…oranges." He let Clark slide over his tongue, pressed
against Clark's ass, pushed him into his throat and pulled back with a wet pop.
"Move a little," Jake murmured, and gulped Clark back down.
Clark made an aborted little hip moment, a jerk forward, a shudder, rose up on
his toes. His eyes rolled back and he came.
"Ah, sorry. Sorry…" Clark leaned over Jake and patted him. "I'm so sorry. I-
I never had anyone do that before."
"You're kidding. Never? How is that possible?"
"Nobody paid me for that." Clark felt the black wall of misery rolling over
him.
Jake stood, licked his lips. "Too bad for them. Lay down."
Clark stretched out as much as he could on the little bed, and Jake took his
own clothes off, eyes on Clark the whole time. He looked down at himself when
the last item of clothing dropped to the floor, touched himself, stroked his
dick from root to tip, and sighed. Looked back at Clark with a touch
of—something—in his eyes, Clark thought , something like surprise. Jake smiled,
came to the bed…straddled him.
"Do you like it like this, Clark?" He leaned over him, his hair brushing
Clark's chest and took a nipple into his mouth. He sucked, hard, gentle,
alternating bites, and nibbles, pinching and teasing Clark. Clark laughed and
gasped and groaned, twisting this way and that, slave to Jake's every touch.
"Jake…" he'd never had anyone touch him quite like this, Jake's tongue was in
his navel, his mouth opened wide over the bone jutting from his hip, he counted
every rib with his teeth, and his lips. He sucked roses down to the base of
Clark's dick, bit and nosed his hair, smelled him and licked him. Clark was so
high from it all, he felt defenseless. He spread his legs wider, so that Jake
had access to every bit of him. It was like—being worshipped, being adored, and
Clark rolled with the wave of delight that shook him. Jake rolled him to his
stomach, and licked his calves, tracing a wet trail to his ass, and bit right
under the swell of muscle. Clark shuddered, and almost without thinking, raised
his hips. Opened wider. Jake let out a long shuddery breath, and kissed him,
right between his cheeks, right over his hole, pressed his lips and sucked a
little and Clark yelled.
Jake laughed and took advantage of Clark's shock, he licked around, and pressed
his tongue against the tight ring, and fucked him open—thrust thumbs into him
and licked right inside of him and Clark shook—what was this—besides the most
amazing sensation he'd ever felt? His stomach jerked, tight—loose—his whole
body burned, wanted to burst into a million pieces. His astonished yells were
only partially muffled by the pillow he'd crammed into his mouth—not to quiet
himself but to keep his sanity… Clark screamed into the down again and again.
Jake moved away, and Clark wanted to cry in disappointment. He was about to
have the most amazing mind boggling orgasm of his life…he babbled some words
that he hoped included don't, and stop and more. He jerked as a cool stream
splashed against his hole, and Jake said, "Hold on," and in one blinding
moment, his world flipped—there was pressure against his hole, and heat, and
then pain—a pain that raced up his spine and convinced his brain that it was
the most extreme pleasure he'd ever felt, heat filled him, and his body
contracted around Jake's dick, and waves of pleasure flowed out from that
point, filled his body. Jake pushed in and groaned, and began fucking him,
steady, slow, deep. Clark found himself pushing back to meet him and pushing
back to get more of him inside. Jake pulled him apart and ground into him
deeper, deeper, and Clark screamed, his whole body tightened on Jake and he was
convulsing, he was shooting liquid fire across the sheets….
Clark swore after to Jake that he'd actually passed out for a few minutes. When
he came to he was coughing, his throat so raw that for a few moments he
couldn't speak. Jake was draped across his back, his slight weight holding him
down and making him feel protected. "Oh, shit—you killed me," Jake groaned.
Clark laughed, shaky, and weak and grinning into the sheets, "I think that's my
line."
Jake laughed. He pulled the rubber off and threw it into one of the empty bags.
"You need a garbage can—we'll put that on your list." He rummaged through the
cabinet, and came dashing back with a bag of chips and leapt into bed.
He fed Clark chips, and they laughed—-about Clark's job, about the people,
about the sex—they emptied the bag, and Jake ended up falling asleep with his
head tucked under Clark's chin. Clark felt a wave of warmth sweep him, waited
for the black knives to slice it into bits but for once they slept and let him
just enjoy the moment of peace. He felt thankful, for Eric, for friends for
Jake. When he slept, he had no dreams at all.
                                  [img-thing]
Clark spent some time thinking about what he and Jake had done and how much he
liked it and wondered why he and Whit had never done anything like that. He'd
loved sex with Whit—he loved Whit, no one could take his place but this—this
had been like having firecrackers and champagne inside you. He touched himself,
carefully, hissed a little, as much in excitement as in pain. He was sore, but
a good sore and he felt a little empty, and if Jake walked in the door in the
next second and asked if he wanted to do it again Clark would do it in the
blink of an eye. It felt good, it felt—complete.
Clark wished it had been Whitney. But it was okay to that it had been Jake.
Maybe…a little more than okay.
                                  [img-thing]
December, and Clark still hadn't called. The pain of missing his parents grew
more and more, it grew to the point that it became impossible to imagine that
they might want him back. Because if it was hurting them as much as it was
hurting him, they must hate him by now, for the pain he was causing them. The
never–ending ache surprised him—he'd expected that it would fade as time went
by. And time was passing so quickly… Clark hardly recognized the person in his
mirror anymore. He was surprised every time by the thin sad boy he saw. He was
all eyes—and hair. His hair was so long, it fell over his shoulders. He
wondered what Whit would think. He'd probably react the same way as Jake,
always at him to eat something, claiming Clark was getting scrawny. He snapped
his hair into a rubber band, and wondered idly if he really was too thin—
Jake. He really liked going out with him. It gave him something to look forward
to, a person who wanted to touch him, and be touched back. Clark sighed. It was
like his skin had been thirsty for it. Jake touched him a lot, little back rubs
and hugs when they sat close, his fingers skimmed here and there, almost always
in contact and Clark felt like a parched flower…he sucked it up, he reveled in
it. Like rain after a long, long drought, Jake brought him some comfort.
                                  [img-thing]
"Sweet, I heard your boss talking to you about calling home—again. When are you
going to do it? You should. They must be nearly crazy worrying about you."
Clark grunted, eyes locked on the television. His arms were around a bowl of
popcorn, and there was a stack of movies Jake had picked for him on the coffee
table. He came around the couch, dropped two bottles of coke on the table and
jumped onto the couch, pulled a blanket over them, and snuggled into Clark's
side. "You don't want to hear it but it's true. I'm not going to argue with you
though; I think we've all learned how stubborn you can be. Pass the popcorn."
Clark passed over the huge bowl of greasy popcorn, wiped his hands and sighed.
"I will. Before Christmas I'll call, okay?"
"Good. I knew you'd give into me. You always do. This is nice, isn't it, kind
of cozy? I haven't had a chance to just relax in forever. Work has been insane
lately."
Clark knew Jake was a dancer, but where, he didn't know. He knew it involved
little clothing, and lots of make-up, and that some of those weekends he spent
with Clark, he was losing a lot of money. He never said, but it was obvious to
Clark. He never asked if Jake did more than dance—it wasn't his business.
They watched two movies, and as the third was rolling, Clark drifted in and out
of sleep, in and out of dreams…Jake changed to Whit, then to Lex Luthor, then
to his Boy….
When Jake nudged him awake, Lex Luthor was just reaching out to touch
him…."Little one," Jake whined, "Come keep me company while I get ready for
work. A friend called and asked me to be his date at some charity thing
tonight." He laughed. "He says all of Metropolis' best and brightest will be
there. Who knows, I may find a husband…I need a backup in case you drop me," he
pouted dramatically, then threw Clark a wink and a smirk.
Clark followed Jake into his bedroom and flopped on the huge bed, watched Jake
get dressed. It was so fascinating to watch him go from a willowy young man, to
a graceful woman. Maybe this was what Whit had felt, watching him. Clark
sighed. He still had the little tube of purple lipstick in his bag, hadn't felt
like using it since—it wasn't the same anymore.
Jake settled a long, blonde wig on his head, arranged the curls until they
framed his face. He added earrings, turned and smiled at him. "Jasmine, at your
service. You know Clark, one day, just for fun; you should let me do your
face—just to see."
Clark grimaced, decided not to mention anything to Jake.
"No really, you'd look beautiful." His eyes sparkled, and he looked so tickled,
Clark thought he looked adorable. "In fact, let's see. Come over here and sit."
Clark shook his head but of course Jake was able to coax him off the bed, and
convince him to sit at the makeup table. He looked in astonishment at the huge
array of powders and creams and tints—so many different colors. Spidery little
false eyelashes were scattered here and there along with sequins and glittering
rhinestones…Jake explained that he needed different accessories for different
occasions, but Clark was so pretty, all he needed was a little color. He
smoothed base on and powdered and brushed Clark, took a small brush and
demanded Clark close his eyes. He brushed color on his lids, lined his eyes,
another brush stroked color over his lips. "Don't open your eyes yet," he
ordered, and Clark smiled and obediently sat. Jake moved away and then Clark
felt a brush sweep through his hair.
"You're so lucky; your hair is long enough that you wouldn't need to bother
with wigs." Jake was behind him, leaning against him as he brushed, and Clark
felt the heat of his crotch pressed into his back. He swallowed, and leaned
back slightly. His heart sped up, and hope filled him—maybe there was time for
sex before Jake left… Clark hoped that he'd want to fuck him again…he breathed
a little sigh of disappointment when Jake moved away. "Okay, now you can look,"
he said.
Clark opened his eyes and froze. That wasn't the person he usually saw in the
mirror, it wasn't the person he'd become for Whitney. This person
was…beautiful.
Jake studied his face, so long, that Clark felt a little nervous. He reached
out and touched his fingertips to Clark's cheek, and looked a little sad. "You
are so beautiful. How can you look so—be so innocent? After everything, how is
it possible?"
Clark laughed. "The last thing I am is innocent, you know that."
"Ah, you think you know, do you?" Jake shook his head, "You're like—a
caterpillar."
"I'm fat and green and leggy?"
"Fool." Jake tapped Clark. "No, like this cocoon opened and a beautiful
butterfly came out—you're—" he snapped his fingers, "you're—what's that
word—mariposa—Spanish for butterfly." He turned Clark to face the mirror fully.
"Say hello, Mariposa."
Clark laughed, felt uneasy and a little silly. "Mariposa. Pretty. But not me,
is it?"
Jake ran off and came back with a camera. "Pose for me, smile!" He took
pictures as he spoke. "Why can't it be you? Who says we only have to have one
face, hmm?"
He made Clark pose in a variety of outfits, and after a bit Clark relaxed, and
even enjoyed it a little, laughing and following Jake's lead. It was a fun
evening, and he was sorry when the limo came to take Jake away.
"Stay here and I'll see you when I get back, okay. Help yourself to anything."
He kissed Clark's cheek and swirled out of the door.
Clark laughed to himself, headed for the bathroom to wash everything off, but
he found it hard to keep his eyes from the mirror.
                                  [img-thing]
Eric invited him to spend Christmas with him, and Jake invited him to spend
Christmas with him—Mrs. Smith and Frank and Rennie invited him…he had so many
invites but there was only one place he wanted to spend Christmas.
 
"Eric. Can I use the phone at your place? I'll pay you…" Clark stood at the
backdoor to the shop, and passed Eric a crate from the morning's delivery. His
face was red from cold, and red from embarrassment—he really hated to ask for
favors but….
"Don't be a doof, Clark. I'll just deduct if from your check." Eric took the
crate of lettuce from Clark and set it down by the refrigerator. He turned to
grab another crate, asked Clark, "Why don't you call from your boyfriend's
place?" Clark looked up quickly, but Eric's face was smooth and serene—or as
serene as Eric ever got.
"He told me I could but—I don't know. He's been gone from his home a long time.
He never talks to his parents." Clark bit his lip. "He's not like you, he
doesn't understand the same way how important it is to have family, you know?"
 
Eric brought him home, made dinner, and pointedly left Clark alone to call.
The phone rang rang…rang…rang…the answering machine answered.
"You've reached the Kent residence, Jonathan, Martha, and Clark. Please leave a
message and we'll get back to you as soon as we can."
Clark hung up and walked into the kitchen. "I got the machine."
Eric looked up with a smile, winced a little when he saw Clark's face. He took
his glasses off polished them on his t-shirt. "Tell you what, let's eat and you
can try again. In fact, if you want, spend the night, and you keep calling." He
let out a little breath, and smiled.
Clark nodded, eyes watery. "If you're sure you don't mind…" and he did just
that. All night, and into the morning Clark only got the machine.
                                  [img-thing]
Two days before Christmas found him sitting at his little table, Mrs. Smith on
one side, he on the other. Entertaining.
They had tea and cookies, and she admired the Christmas tree. She cooed and
fussed over it, and Clark beamed. It might only be a few inches tall and made
of plastic, but it was a tree and it was his. It sat in a tinfoil covered
coffee can, and held a string of battery operated lights. It took up most of
the little table, and the present Mrs. Smith brought him was on the bed.
He inched the plate of packaged chocolate chip cookies closer to Mrs. Smith,
and said, "I'm worried, Mrs. Smith."
"About what, sweetheart?"
Clark took a deep breath and said, "I tried calling my parents a few days ago,
I left messages and I didn't get an answer at all…. and I don't know what could
be going on and it's been worrying me." He worried that what really happened
was that they'd sat listening, waiting for him to stop.
"Your mother was pregnant when you left home, love. I don't want to add to your
worry, but—could something have happened?"
Clark gaped at her—April—he quickly counted off on his fingers—and looked at
her, stunned. "Oh, my—she would be due in December…how can I find out? I-
I can't call right now."
"Well now, how about the library? Does Smallville have a paper? Perhaps there
is an on line issue—"
"Sure, there is—and I can check the birth announcements." He smiled at Mrs.
Smith and her cheeks turned pink
"Glad I could help Clark." She reached for a cookie, and lifted her eyebrows.
"Clark. These are really very good. Aren't you going to help me eat them?"
"Oh, of course!" Clark blushed and quickly grabbed a cookie. "They're not bad
for not being homemade, don't you think?"
"They're my favorite brand, dear."
                                  [img-thing]
Christmas morning he spent with Eric. Eric had made the room up again for
Clark, but on the bed this time was a bright red and yellow and blue comforter.
He'd had one of his customers make it for Clark, for Christmas. Clark loved it;
he threw down his pack, and immediately wrapped it around himself and stayed
wrapped in it the rest of the night. He asked Eric if he thought that his
parents would let him come home if he just kind of showed up on their porch.
"Kid, your parents will never turn you away. A kid like you? I can tell from
the way you act—they're good people."
Clark smiled. Yeah, his parents were good people. They opened their arms to
Whit without a second thought just because he told them he loved Whit, and they
treated him like he was their own son…he teared up. He knew now, having a baby
wouldn't have changed their love for him. His baby sister. Because he knew the
baby was a girl, he was sure of it.
 
Eric watched Clark thinking, heading toward the right decision, he took a
little breath, let it out, happy that Clark was going to go home—finally. And
then, he opened his mouth, and ruined it all unknowing.
"Hell, they'll never know what happened, and you don't have to tell them
anything you don't want to."
Clark froze, he dropped a million miles into that black wave that reached up
razor sharp arms and pulled him under. did you think I was gone? I'm here I'll
always be here you'll never be far from me He was…not the kind of son they
raised, not the person they'd taught him to be. It wasn't their fault. It was
his. And he'd almost forgotten…
 
The day after Christmas, He took the bus to the public library, a huge marble
and mahogany tribute to another era. The computers for public use were in room
that formerly housed the card catalogues. Sunlight poured in through huge steel
mullioned windows, the light so bright in them they were white but the corners
of the room were still dark. Clark stood in the huge double doorway, and
shuddered. The windows scared him.
He inched into the room, darting looks right and left, but the only occupants
were two little girls and an elderly man. He let out a breath, and headed to a
terminal.
Deep breath, deep breath… he told himself and pulled up the Smallville Ledger,
clicked through to the local interest page and there under announcements, he
found births. Under a few one-line announcements he read: Dec 23, Corinne Kala,
daughter to Martha and Jonathan Kent.
Clark sat back, mouth open, eyes wide…he had a sister…it was real. She was
real. He wondered if she had red hair, if she cried a lot…if his mom and dad
had thought about him at all in the last few days…weeks. Clark sighed deeply
and stood. Well, that explained why he hadn't heard from his parents. Now he'd
let them get on with their business, and he'd get on with his.
                                  [img-thing]
Lex was having a nightmare in which the Galletti twins featured prominently. He
woke, rearing up from the bed with a shout, his heart beating painfully fast.
He vibrated like a wire for a long moment, before dropping back to the bed,
gasping for breath.
He'd managed to forget, somehow managed to squeeze those memories into the same
box he'd forced the shock treatment nightmares…along with most of his
adolescence….
The sight of Bobbie and that little girl had brought it all flooding back.
His dad had been in debt to Van Galletti. Lionel had been rich but Van was a
word rich didn't begin to describe…Lionel had taken money from Galletti and in
exchange, for one year, Lex had had to live in the Galletti mansion, like some
son of minor medieval royalty, fostered out to the Lord….
Or a sacrifice.
The Gallettis.
He'd thought they loved him. Jesus.
Lex dragged himself out of bed, fighting the comforter, yanking free of his
sheets and dropping them to the carpet. He staggered to the bath room, fell to
his knees and threw up violently—again and again until he was heaving nothing
but memories.
 
Lucas wandered in later that afternoon, looking distracted. "Hey Lex-Lex—wow,
you look like shit."
"Don't call me that, and thanks a lot. You're back again…" he waved his hand
when Lucas went for his coat pocket. "Keep the keys—it's ridiculous to think
you might actually do as I wish."
Lucas' face softened. "I'm sorry. Is it really that awful to have me here?" He
began to back towards the door, a smile on his face that did nothing to mask
the bleakness in his eyes and Lex thought that in the whole damned world, he
might be the only thing Lucas loved. And Lucas might be the only one whose love
Lex was worthy of.
"Oh come back and spare me the guilty look—as if you've ever actually felt one
moment of real remorse…" Lex sighed. "So, what do you want this time?"
Lucas held up a bag. "Lunch with you. And Daddy stuff…"
 
Over take out sandwiches and soup that Lucas brought in with him, Lex's world
was shattered. All the hard work he'd put into reconstructing himself, Lucas
unwittingly destroyed, bit by bit, page by page, so eager to share what he'd
learned with Lex, eager to show him that he was capable and Lucas had no idea
what he was ruining….
Shoving everything aside, Lucas spread the information he's gotten across the
table. "Once you get past the ick factor, it gets kind of interesting. The
research Dad's been doing—most of the applications are military, some
pharmaceutical, we know all that. Now this section here—well, this is where it
gets really weird." Lucas laid out a few photographs of mostly young people,
mostly average looking teens, most looking without interest into the camera.
Lucas was animated, fascinated as he explained.
Lex licked paper-dry lips, eyed Lucas uneasily. "You seem to have gotten over
your disgust pretty quickly."
Lucas laughed lightly. "Lex-Lex, you've got to adapt. This is something
we—I'm—stuck with so I might as well find out all I can. It's only good sense
to do so." Lex grunted, and Lucas patted his shoulder.
"Of course I am. Now, this girl—" The photo showed an attractive girl with
large green eyes and chin length auburn hair—"can change her appearance to
resemble any human being. And this other one, she can teleport, I swear. They
have her so drugged up she can't move—but I saw tapes. Wild. I don't have to
tell you how useful both of them can be. Have been. This kid sucks heat from
anything. Weird, but they actually have been able to come up with a use for
him…this guy here? Can change his body so he can slip through any solid. With a
little help. Cool."
Lex stared at the photos, swallowed until he could finally speak. "How is…it
possible…?"
Lucas dropped a piece of dull green stone on the table—it looked like
unpolished emerald. "This stuff—it's like a genii in a bottle. You know those
stories where you're granted the thing you want the most, and it turns around
and eats you? Okay, don't laugh but this—it's the same thing, in a way." He
shuffled the photographs. "Poor bastards," he laughed.
Lex stood and walked away, his skin crawling…he didn't want to hear this...his
mind had already begun to make connections.
"Except…there's this one kid, and damn he's hot—he's not like the others." He
hesitated before passing the photo to Lex. "He seems to have been born like
this—or maybe the mutation happened at some time in the past. There's another
difference—he's from some eastern European country. Something you might want to
look into. As far as the pet scientists know, the meteorites came down once,
there were minor falls worldwide, but the concentration was North America …hold
on, it's right here," he pulled out a map. "East coast—" he traced his finger
to the middle of the country, "—here and here…but the biggest strike was
Kansas, in fact—Smallville, in 1986."
Lucas stopped, and put his hand on Lex's shoulder. "The year you were visiting
with Dad, right? What did you want, Lex? Never to be sick again? Never to be
made fun of—all that clownish hair must have been hard for a weird little kid
like you to deal with. Did you wish no one could hurt you anymore?"
Lex snarled, "Shut up. You don't know anything about that. You have no idea
what it was like…."
Lucas laughed. "Maybe not, but Dad left me with a crazy woman, how much better
do you think it was for me? Anyway, that's what's going on. You might want to
take a look and fucking help me with this. I need someone with an actual
working moral sense to figure out our next move." He grinned.
Lex refused to smile back—Lucas was always at his most dangerous when he was
being his most endearing.
"Oh, by the way, I found out what it was Dad and the Gallettis had in common."
Lex paled, felt his stomach flip, but Lucas went on. "He borrowed a lot of
money from them, but never paid it back." Lex closed his eyes. "He gave them
something instead."
"Oh, I know," Lex said. "I know."
Lucas looked puzzled. "Then you know about your blood? The whole point of the
shock treatments was to wipe that out…"
"What? What?""
"Your blood…it's like a—a panacea."
"Panacea?" Lex asked, and Lucas flushed a little and scowled. "Wow…nice word…"
"Shut up. Anyway, sort of. It won't cure diseases, but it'll help accelerate
healing from injury, like broken bones, cuts, stuff like that…whoa!" He grabbed
Lex, and sat him, wiped his pale sweating face.
"God. It's all about me. It all comes back to me…these people…it's all my
fault."
"Fuck—see? There you go again, with your fucked up sense of morals and your "me
me me." Shit. It's always about you. My guilt, my pain, my this and my that.
Jesus. You're a fucking law unto yourself, can't you get that?"
"No, Lucas—you are. I'm…not like that. Not now. But...what about this…this
blood thing? What the hell do I do about that?"
Nothing, I'm on it. I'll do what has to be done to protect you. I'll do what I
have to do. I can disappear anyone who knows," he said with a low laugh.
"You're the only thing in the world worth a fuck to me. No one else gets that."
Lex stared into the past, barely aware of Lucas, what he was saying. "Oh my
god, no wonder he made me come home, no wonder he kept me so close…he flipped
my whole life to keep me next to him, just producing like an—an aphid." He
shuddered.
"Ew, must be something nasty. You can explain that to me later, after you've
shown me how grateful you can be…" When Lex didn't react, or smile, or yell,
Lucas straddled his legs and grabbed his face hard, yanked it around until they
were eye to eye inches apart. "Hey. No one will know. Trust me to fix this.
Trust me?"
Lex hesitated, for a long moment he stared back into Lucas' eyes…he nodded.
"Okay. Yes."
"Good," Lucas said, and kissed him, a lingering gentle kiss, right above his
eyebrows and Lex heard the ghost of a sigh when he pulled away. Lucas held into
his eyes for a moment before stepping away, all softness gone again. "Okay.
Step one—erase everything. Step two…figure out everything else."
"Find out," Lex rasped. "Find out if Van knows—no—find out if Bobbi knows. If
they do…"
Lucas grinned like a kid on Christmas morning. "Then they'll find out something
new about us. No one is safe from us. We're Luthors, damn it."
                                  [img-thing]
"Clark, honey, sweetie pie…."
"What? What do you want Jake, I know you want something," Clark growled.
"I have a huge favor to ask." Jake looked a little worried. "Can you take a
date for me?"
"A date? You mean—dance? Because I can't dance—"
"Um, honey, I've seen you dance. No, I accidentally accepted two dates on the
same day. I really need to make the one date, but I hate to disappoint my
friend…do you mind? Just have dinner with him, that's all, I promise, and
you'll be home in time for the news."
Jake smiled, and looked so embarrassed to be asking that Clark gave in, as
always. "Okay, I will." Jake let out a little yelp, and grabbed Clark. "Thank
you, you have no idea how much this means to me!"
 
Clark was pleased that Jake was pleased. It was a little thing to do, and if it
helped out his…his boyfriend…Clark flushed a little. Yeah. Boyfriend. He smiled
at Jake. "Should I pack a bag…?"
"But of course! You'll stay with me tonight. I'll be home early too—I'm just
going to an art gallery opening with—" Jake covered his mouth "—oh gosh, no
names! But you'd be surprised." He winked.
"Really?" Clark grinned. "Come on, tell me!"
"Weeeell, I might be able to be tempted with popcorn…and maybe a few M&Ms
sprinkled in."
Clark strolled over to Jake, and ran his hands over his shoulders, his sides.
"I'll do my best to get it out of you," he said, and stroked his thumbs over
Jake's nipples, leaned over and licked at his neck. Clark nibbled tiny little
kisses along his collar bone.
Jake twisted away, red, breathing heavily, "Come on, let me get you ready."
Clark frowned. "Ready? How?"
"My friend is looking for someone like Mariposa, not Clark. Does that bother
you? Because if it does, I really can call it off…"
Clark looked doubtful, but Jake had asked and he'd already said yes…"Well. I
guess not. I suppose it's okay."
"Of course, honey. Trust me."
                                  [img-thing]
Jake walked Clark out to the limo and Clark felt…odd. He'd never gone anywhere
dressed like this; he'd never worn anything like this. The silly lost robe was
the closest he'd ever come to dressing like a woman and tonight…he didn't
recognize his own self. His hair was straightened, and Jake had pulled it back
on one side to drape one shoulder. Make up he applied himself made him look
kind of…exotic. He liked the sweep of black around his eyes, the red Jake
insisted he use on his mouth, it made him feel—powerful. It really was weird,
he felt stronger and braver in the gown and makeup than he'd ever felt before.
Without thinking, his hips swung, and his head went up and back. Jake said
quietly, "That's it baby, show them. Show them who you are." Jake opened the
limo door, and said, "I'll see you later, hon." Clark smiled and slid in, still
on a high and Jake suddenly pulled him close, and kissed him, hard.
"My lipstick," Clark yelped, and laughed, his cheeks turning pink. "Geez,
listen to me."
Jake's expression went odd, and it took a second, but he laughed with Clark.
"Mariposa—" Jake took a breath and went on. "You are so beautiful. I—I think
that you'll be okay."
Clark nodded. "Like you said. It's just dinner, and make nice. I'll see you
later on tonight, and we can compare notes. And you promise to tell me who your
date is?"
Jake said, "Sure, I promise. And you won't have to go on any other dates,
Clark. Thanks for doing this for me."
The limo pulled off, and Clark twisted in the seat, and watched Jake get
smaller and smaller.
 
The limo rolled into a parking garage at an address that made Clark whistle in
surprised awe. The door opened, he was let out and met by a couple of guys who
moved like they were joined at the brain. They led him to a big, glass-walled
elevator. He thought he was to meet the person at the restaurant. Meeting him
at his place made it a little too much like a "date" date. Clark wasn't sure if
he liked that. He shrugged. If it got too creepy, he could take a cab home. He
smiled slightly. He was sure cab drivers in Metropolis wouldn't be spooked by a
six foot something guy in a dress….
A man in a suit stopped him at the door as the elevator opened. "You're
pretty," he said and Clark blushed. He took his arm and Clark was about to ask
him a question, when he felt a sharp, painful jab in his wrist.
"Hey, something jabbed me, you should check your cuff—ow!" Fire raced up
Clark's arm, flaring hot and painful in his veins—he jumped back and shook his
arm, hard—and lost control of his legs, fell to his knees. The room swooped and
swirled and the man smiled at him and Clark tried to hold himself up on shaky
arms and weak knees, he was smiling as Clark tumbled and fell to his side,
smiling as blackness crept in.
Can you help me find my puppy?" he said
‘What?' Clark was confused… ‘Puppy?' There was a shadow over him, and then a
sharp stab of awful pain. Against the glare of the sun, Clark saw a glowing
green rock in the man's fist—the hand dropped and pain exploded in his head,
but from the inside, the expected impact never came, and then it was dark….
                                  [img-thing]
"Clark sent me to tell you that he's gone home. He left last night. I took him
to the train station and bought him a ticket. I didn't want him to change his
mind, you know Clark." Jake laughed lightly, looking at the door, the stacks of
vegetables and fruit, the oak floor.
Eric nodded, said carefully, "I thought I did."
"Yes well, I figured strike while the iron's hot, while he wanted to go," Jake
studied the labels on the wine bottles near the register. He played with some
of the bottle stoppers laid out on a tray near them. He didn't look at Eric.
"I'm sure he'll call us as soon as he's settled."
Eric nodded again. Eyes locked on Jake, he said, "You know, I think he kind of
loved you," and Jake turned white, the stopper in his hand fell to the tray
with a clatter of steel on steel.
"I've got to go now, I'll…as soon as he calls I'll let you know. I'll be
back—tomorrow, I'm sure."
Jake fled the shop, and hurried down the street. Eric stood in the doorway,
arms crossed tight, and watched him run. Eric's suspicion—his fear—was that
he'd never see him again, and he was right.
***** Chapter 15 *****
 [img-thing]
 
The lobby of the building the Gallettis kept house in was a huge glass and
marble cavern, mirrors everywhere reflected multiple images of a sullen faced
young man, about to step into the den of the two people who, along with his
father, had done the maximum damage they could to someone he loved. Lucas
caught sight of his expression in a mirrored door and grimaced, shrugged and
settled a look of mild interest on his face. He very much hated mirrors.
He was met by couple of guys who dressed exactly alike, had the same
expression, were so trained to work together even their steps looked
choreographed. They ushered him into an elevator, and he was taken to the floor
converted to house the Gallettis and their staff. It wasn't exactly tasteless,
Lucas thought, it managed to be right on the edge. Everyone he passed dressed
alike, like the puppet boys who'd brought him to the floor. It was interesting.
When he entered the apartment, only Bobbie was present. She was sprawled on the
couch. She was painted carefully to resemble a healthy human being; she had the
air of something carefully preserved. She couldn't have been more than thirty,
and she was beautiful, but there was a strained artificiality to her that made
her seem much older…it was in the eyes, not in the porcelain smooth skin. Lucas
smiled. Generally, outward appearances meant less than nothing to him—he was
good at reading the inside. He glanced around the apartment, and nodded.
Sterile, no personal touch, everything as carefully arranged as a photo shoot,
so he figured this was a public place, window dressing. The real living space
looked much different than this, he imagined.
A few other people milled about, but Lucas knew they didn't count. They were
meat versions of remote controls, and he treated them as such. He handed over
his coat without glancing at whoever took it from his hand.
"Um, Lucas Luthor." Bobbie drawled. "The one who got it all." Her eyes slid
over him, past him. "I know your brother."
"Bobbie. I don't think I've had the pleasure—yes, Lex speaks of you. Water," he
said to the person that appeared at his side.
She looked interested, and this time when she spoke, her eyes actually focused
on him. "Does he? Really…what does he say?"
"Not much," he smiled over the rim of his glass. Not much Bobbie, you fucking
whore bitch. His eyes go wide whenever he hears your name and there's a little
vein at his temple that jumps and. He touches his wrists every time. Mention
Van and he looks…lost, and a little crazy... Lucas contemplated doing business
with them, he couldn't wait to do so. It would be interesting.
Bobbie rolled to her side and asked Lucas what he wanted in a bored voice, but
Lucas used to cheat for a living before he was dragged into Lex's world.
"No, it's what you want, and what you'll give me for it. I haven't decided what
you want to give me yet." He leaned back and crossed his ankles. Smiled. "You
can just…offer things, until I say yes." He laughed and Bobbie smiled, looked a
little puzzled, the slow dawning of anger made her eyes crinkle and narrow.
Lucas knew that she didn't realize it showed.
A little blonde sitting at Bobbie's feet smiled up at him. Lucas looked at her
and the pile of pictures she had fanned out on the table in front of her. They
were photos of one person, a tall graceful brunette, beautiful. "Am I
interrupting something?" he asked.
"No, just some other business. I' m buying a gift for Van, for his birthday.
You two will come to the party?"
"Well, Lex won't be attending but I wouldn't miss it for the world, and I know
just what to give Van." Lucas smiled at the blonde, and she backed away a
little, fear in her eyes. She glanced at Bobbie, and made a small negative move
of her head—Lucas laughed. Her attempt at warning was pointless. Bobbie was too
self-involved to notice that Lucas was dangerous.
Bobbie looked excited. She gathered up the pictures and said, "Van's going to
have a wonderful birthday." She turned to the other woman. "And yes on this.
I'll buy for what you're asking."
The woman stood. "I'll collect tomorrow." She left without a backward glance.
Bobbie watched her go, and sighed. "Bitch. Jasmine thinks she so smart…she
forgets herself, forgets who calls the shots here…"
Hell, Bobbie's an idiot if she thinks she'll see that little queen after
tonight, Lucas thought, watching her go. The little prick had the look of
someone about to bolt. Which did make her smart. Lucas watched with interest as
Bobbie's mask slipped and real anger bled through her frozen expression.
Dealing with the Gallettis was going to be so much fun.
A staff person walked over to low table between Lucas and Bobbie, and laid down
a little box and a glass tile before leaving. Lucas looked at the little
tableau and smirked. Only an idiot fogged their mind during business. But then
again, he was in the room with an idiot.
"Will I have the pleasure of speaking to your brother today?"
Bobbie tapped a little coke out onto the tile and Lucas had to keep his face
smooth—he wanted to laugh when he saw that she had a little custom knife for
cutting the drug, and a silver straw for snorting it. Lucas bit his lip…oh he
was going to enjoy playing with these assholes so much.
She inhaled two, three lines, and sat up, indicated he should help himself. He
murmured his thanks and looked away as she snorted another line.
"So—" she said, and licked her lip, "we had a deal with Lionel for a certain
item. We want to know if we have that same deal with you." When she smiled, her
eyes were bright and eager.
"Why don't you describe what the deal entailed…?"
"It was an exchange. Your father had…" she made a great show of searching for
words, "interesting tastes. Tastes we were able to meet. We were generous. But
so was he. Had always been, dear, dear man." She smiled, and Lucas felt the
world shift under him, his skin jerk and crawl on his bones. Patience.
"He kept us on our toes, though, such tiny amounts...he claimed it was very
difficult to make, very expensive, is that true?"
Lucas smiled. "We're looking at it with fresh eyes. I'm reorganizing his
research staff—I'd say there were some major changes coming."
She smiled and said, "That's what I want to hear." She snorted another line of
coke and said, "It's magic, that shit—with it, every time you do this is like
the first time, every time you shoot up, it's like the fucking first
time—that's what we all chase you know—the first time. Imagine having it again
and again…" She shuddered and smiled. "…can't overdose, can't get ugly and
stupid…it's a miracle all right."
Lucas thought about his brother, chained to a man who had no respect for him,
no love, kept in a box for people like the Gallettis. Lucas smiled, and
pictured Bobbie lying in a corner of the room, with a spike in her eye. He
pictured her gutted from chin to pussy. Thought that and decided, he'd save the
mind games for someone else, this bitch and her fucking brother he was going to
straight up murder.
                                  [img-thing]
Clark woke slowly, painfully. His first thought was for his mother, and then
for Whit, and he remembered something strange happening…he moved a little and
stopped. Someone was in his room. No. This was not his room.
"Hello. Welcome home. Butterfly."
"Hunnn…who…?"
"That's your name, isn't it? Mariposa? Oh, there's some stuff here says
"Clark", but your real name is Mariposa." The woman rooted through his
overnight bag, his bag with Whit's jacket at the bottom, his quilt was bunched
up on the floor. The woman glanced in the direction Clark looked, where his
stuff was tossed all over the floor like garbage, and she laughed, a high,
crystalline peal of laughter. She tossed her black hair over one shoulder and
smiled at Clark as if he shared her amusement. Laughter came from others
standing in the room, but Clark couldn't make them out, they were like shadows.
"Jasmine is so sentimental, brought every little thing you own, it seems. You
didn't have much, and what you have is mostly garbage…still, it all belongs to
us now." She picked up Whit's jacket. Held it to her cheek. "What a sad story
behind this eyesore. Oh yes, I know that too," she said at Clark's startled
look. She sighed. "I love romances and I bet you do too, don't you?" She
dropped it and moved around to the other side of the bed. "And I bet you
thought, gosh, I've found love again. Jasmine, Jasmine…or Jake, whatever. I
don't think it was love…do you? Not that you'll have much time to think about
it. Lots of changes are coming your way, love, lots of changes."
She came towards the bed with a syringe, and said, "We're going to have fun."
She held his head, and he closed his eyes and felt the needle in his arm—waited
for the pain, the fire, but this time, the fire turned to something
amazing…warm, wonderful. It filled him like nothing had before.
 
Clark got a shot.
He got a shot.
He got a shot—
People came in and out, moved him and led him, told him to do things and he
did. Eat Mari, walk Mari, sit here, sit there. Come sit by me…he felt cool lips
on him, cool hands. They roamed over him, in him, felt so good. He thought
about nothing else but cool and soft, and sleep. And getting the wonderful
feeling, the roller coaster ride into heaven. Finally, finally, he felt warm
and safe, and the knives that hurt him before felt good, felt right.
A voice broke into his thoughts—lack of thoughts…he'd been floating on a cloud,
trying to imagine his hands his feet, wondering if he still had them. The voice
said, "Happy New Year," and he focused, thought hard. "…Bobbie…" he giggled.
"Oh yes. Come on, sweet thing. Let's get you dressed."
He was passed from hand to hand, dressed and made up and oiled and perfumed
until he felt like someone's doll. He was led out of the room and down a hall,
into a room that was dim, and hot—so hot. There was a bed. There was man
waiting on the bed. He looked into the man's eyes and something that had been
asleep since Jake sent him there awoke and shrieked, danger, run, run—
"Mariposa. I like that. Come here."
The cloud he floated in dissolved, dumped him back into the now, and there it
was again, fear—black vibrating fear, bigger and colder and—The Man. The Man
found him again after all these years, He'd finally caught up with him. Dad
lied—the Man wasn't dead. He'd just changed his face and his body and he was
here. Waiting.
Clark felt his legs move, terror kept his jaws clamped shut. He came towards
the bed, and the man reached out and—
—hurt him over and over and over.
                                  [img-thing]
Someone named Clark kept track of time, and the other one named Mariposa got
hurt. Someone deep inside cried a lot, but Mariposa shrugged. It was nothing.
The shots were useless any more but she was smart enough not to say… she found
a place inside that worked almost as well.
You have to get out somehow some way or you'll die. Clark heard it and knew,
but Mariposa wasn't concerned. She knew their whole life they'd been waiting to
die. It was—someone's fault her fault, his fault…it was almost over now….
Van sat on Clark's legs and licked his mouth, chewed the gloss away, and his
man worked on Clark's back, had been working for what felt like hours. A
butterfly grew, stretched its wings on him. The tip of one wing lay over his
shoulder and the tails wrapped around his ribs…Bobbie told the artist to add
more green, more purple, because Mariposa was royalty.
Van laughed. "Do his dick next."
Bobbie pushed Van away and took Clark in her mouth, making him hard. She
pointed at the base of his dick. "Right there, a little one for me." She smiled
up at Clark, "Because I love you so much," she said, and he wanted to vomit.
The pain streaked into his groin and grew and grew as the needle worked. He bit
his lip and thought about dying and he sighed. The thought did bring some
comfort.
                                  [img-thing]
The plain is familiar. I've been here before. The wind blows the stalks of wild
grass down, the seed heads rustling together bring back the familiar sound, a
sound my human trained ears hear as the ocean…he's coming closer, coming out of
the grass, the frozen snow clumped in the grass squeaks, crunches under his
footsteps. Ice breaks, but it's not cold here. It's right, the way it should
be. The fat red sun is high in the sky, and he looks up, the light make his
eyes look like emeralds, his lips look red against his golden skin. I look like
snow next to him. It shames me.
Not your fault he says. You do what you have you do to survive—but now, you
have to fight. If you give in, you will die. And you'd take everything with
you. All the memories…
I say I really want to die, and if he loved me he'd let me go, but he shakes
his head. You have so much more to do, so much more. He takes my hands and begs
me to please hold on, just hold on a little more. He's crying, and I'm crying
and then, at the edge of the field, far out on the edge, someone stands calling
my name, and my heart swells.
He found me—he found me….
Clark woke to another day. He crushed down the deep feeling of disappointment
and left the bed. He was alive, so he had to begin his day, another day he owed
his owners.
                                  [img-thing]
He bent and groaned, the thick shaft driving into him rocked him forward,
burning deep inside with each thrust. Big hands wrapped in his hair and pulled
him down on the long heavy dick in front of him. His lips stretched so wide,
the corners of his mouth burned—saliva dripped steadily, down the shaft, ran
down his chin, he tried to swallow, and with each attempt his throat convulsed
and the body under him shook. Little hands danced over him, scored deep
scratches on his hips and tightened the restraints locked and wrapped around
his wrists, jerked his hands higher behind his back until it felt like his
bones would pop through his skin.
His ass burned, his legs, his balls tightened now—his dick was jerking,
drooling—he didn't have the power to feel shame at all anymore. In the
beginning, when it started, he tried to get away. Not now. Now, he tried to get
more of the thick shaft inside him and Bobbie grabbed the base of his dick and
squeezed, hard. "Slow down, precious," she scolded, "Van's not ready…"
Van slapped him, hard. Again and again, until he was panting harder and harder
and finally thrust deep into Clark's throat and came, yanking handfuls of hair
loose, pulling back and spilling over Clark's face. Bobbie let out a low hoarse
scream, and Clark groaned and met her as she drove the strap-on deeper, and she
finally let him come. He sobbed gratefully, in the same moment tried to blank
it out.
"You stink," Van hissed. "You are the worst cocksucker in the world. Why is it
still here?" he asked Bobbie.
"Don't say that, my Mari is very sweet, aren't you? We love, you, yes, we do,"
she crooned, and licked Clarks face, kissed him, cleaned him while Van watched.
                                  [img-thing]
Clark knew that there were two types of people. People who hurt him and people
who didn't. It was pointless to think beyond that. He didn't get angry when Van
passed him around or when Bobbie used him like furniture because it wasn't him.
What happened on the outside had nothing to do with the inside.
He watched what happened to the body from the safety of the inside of his
skull. Separate and safe and he hated. Hated everything about himself. Hated
the butterfly that marked him as less than human. Hated whatever it was that
made human beings want to hurt him. He stared at himself a lot, trying to find
it, the thing that signaled he wasn't human, and therefore, okay to rip apart.
Was it in his eyes? He couldn't see any difference there, or in the feel of his
skin, or his hair…he scrubbed and scrubbed…was it in his smell?
What marked him as different? What made it all right to do this to him?
He brought the ring on his finger to his mouth, pressed it against his lips. He
rubbed the blood warm stone lightly over his cheek. The ring was all he had to
remind him he once had everything, and lost it all.
                                  [img-thing]
Eyes closed because he was allowed to close his eyes. Throbbing wet heat
surrounded him, pulled his dick in. Push in, pull back, push in…and think of
anything except Bobbie on him, writhing, groaning, or Van watching, hands on
her breasts, her neck. Kneeling between her legs and licking her, sucking at
her clit, his balls. He was wet from her leaking pussy, and Van's frantic mouth
working both of them. The smooth wet flesh around him tightened, squeezed him
and he shuddered. Pushed up into her, his eyes tightened more and he thought of
dying, thought of death reaching out and crushing him made him even harder, he
jerked his hips and tried to push in deeper, her ass flattened against his
thighs and Van knelt between her legs kissing her. He reached past her, and
snatched a handful of Clark's hair, wrapping it around his wrist he pulled
Clark closer and kissed him—he felt the vibration of Bobbie's groans through
his hands, through the grip he had on her ribs. He could feel her pussy
tightening, fluttering spasms gripped him and made him moan, Van whispered in
his ear, "Come now," and with a sharp gasp, Clark came. He felt heat, wet and
thick on his legs, and felt Van's fingers grip painfully on his thighs.
Over, over again and peace for a little bit.
Bobbie slid off the bed, and ran to the sitting area in the bedroom. She
grabbed a little bag from a side table by the couch, almost skipped back to the
bed, grinning from ear to ear. She opened the bag in front of Van. There was a
syringe inside, filled with a pale yellowish fluid. "This is a special present
from the Luthors to you, Van."
"Leave us alone." Van growled at Clark, eyes on the needle. Clark stood as
quickly as he could. Bobbie slapped him, lightly, playfully. "You're so funny,
Mari, honey. You know we love you."
Clark moved out of the room, as quickly as he could without appearing to be
running. Luthors? He remembered Lex Luthor. He remembered feeling afraid of
him, and excited by him. His chest ached, and he felt sad, sad…Lex was like
these people…it shouldn't be possible that he could still feel hurt….
                                  [img-thing]
Clark sat at the vanity and studied his face, grimaced. He glued thick false
eyelashes to his own because there was a party tonight, and that meant he had
to look good. Silver shadow went over his lids, and black liner followed. He
looked at himself and swirled the thick sable brush into the pot of peach
colored blush. He looked like fucking death warmed over. He drew the brush over
cheekbones like knife blades. He was so white—so fucking pale the peach powder
looked almost orange, but at least the skin was smooth and blemish free.
The pads he tucked into the bra in the gown helped create the illusion of
cleavage, and he pat a little powder down the center of his breastbone—stopped
and pulled the top down some and rouged his nipples too. He adjusted the gown
and turned to get heels out of the closet. The stupid jacket was hanging on the
door knob again. He didn't remember doing that. Stupid. He grabbed the jacket
and a hanger and stopped. He held the jacket to his face and held on through
the roll of deep grasping blackness that sucked at him, tried to draw him
under. He took a deep shuddering breath and hung the jacket back on the knob.
Okay. Okay, he could see the damn thing; it wouldn't kill him to look at it. It
didn't even matter…he rolled the ring, and the feeling of being swamped receded
to a vague feeling of unease. He felt a little itchy, a little jittery. His
eyes felt sticky, and he tried not to blink as he carefully applied color and
gloss to dry lips…he slipped a pair of wide bracelets on each wrist, and
shivered.
Bobbie walked into the room. "Why is it so hot in here, aren't you hot, Mari,
honey. Aren't you dressed yet?"
Clark shook his head, and clipped a long thin chain between the bracelets.
"There you go, perfect. Come on, let's go in." She held out her hand and
Clark's shook when he took it.
She smiled. "Pretty thing."
                                  [img-thing]
The apartment was packed, wall to wall flesh, the music exploding in air nearly
as solid as the walls. He had to take a breath or two when he entered the nest
to let his lungs get used to the gray mass that was supposedly air. He let his
eyes wander, choosing. Van would let him take anyone but his favorite of the
moment, so it behooved him to ferret the little fuck out, who the fuck ever it
was, and take them.
He wandered, as noticeable as the smoke that weaved thick tendrils through the
air, slowly sipping at mineral water and a twist of lime, and picked through
the crowd. They were a mixed bunch, some were people in the same line as the
Gallettis, and some were people who had no fucking business being there, some
people whose only claim to fame was that they were entertaining in one way or
another—Lucas could give a flying fuck what singer or actor pranced around the
Twins. Movies, music, art, they held no meaning for him. Smeared paint on
canvas—Lucas never could understand why or how it was supposed to make him feel
anything—it wasn't real. Like movies. You couldn't see the people on the
screen, they weren't alive; they didn't react so it was a pointless to watch
them. Music was just noise taking up space in your brain. Why Lex tolerated it,
sought it out, was a mystery to him.
Lex…a chill ran up Lucas' spine and he smiled. Maybe he should get something
for Lex. Lucas looked around the room, and smiled even wider. That's just what
he'd do; he'd pick up something nice and gift it to Lex.
He took another round of the dark apartment, and found his hosts—Galletti was
in one corner with his crazy sister at his side, a girl on his lap who looked
enough like Bobbie to be her twin. It was all well and good to fuck your sister
behind closed doors, but even dealers of mass murder, even baby killers liked
to pretend they had some kind of moral standard, some line they wouldn't cross.
Lucas snorted. Van irritated him just by existing. He watched him slow motion
screw the girl, and imagined killing him in various ways. He'd decided on
shoving a taser up Van's ass, when a tall shape at the bar, dressed head to toe
in purple, caught his eye. The back of her gown was open to the cleft of her
ass, long black hair caught up in a tail fell between her shoulder blades,
setting off the tattoo of a butterfly. She turned, and her eyes were huge,
black, her lips were blood red against her pale, pale skin. She was striking.
She was beautiful…Lucas stared hard. And a man.
Lucas smiled. She was very beautiful, but her hands gave her away. The black
eyes swept the room and landed on him and he felt her gaze right in his gut.
That was the one he was bringing home to Lex.
And of course, she was the favorite. That made it sweeter.
He loved how angry Van was—he looked like he was about to bite. Lucas felt warm
all over, watching the man struggle to suck up to him. Bobbie was totally
clueless to Van's struggle—too stupid to care about anything but what he'd
given them. She fluttered and cooed over the package and over Van until he was
distracted from the source of his anger, and drawn into his sister's
enthusiasm.
Lucas watched them slide the needles into each other's arms, one helping the
other, crouched holding on to each other; nothing else existed for them but
them. The miracle in the thin glass vials made them light up, made them glow,
hid the ugliness and only revealed love. For a wild moment, Lucas hated the
twins beyond all rational thought.
Still, Lucas carefully watched the minute changes his brother's blood wrought.
He'd wanted to see what it would do. And now he knew. It made them beautiful,
almost inhumanly beautiful. Of course.
But it didn't make them immortal.
"I'm ready." Lucas stood and looked at the twins pointedly, impatiently.
Bobbie said, "Fine. You can take Mari, but nothing leaves with her."
Van nodded. "We bought the bitch, and everything that came with him." Van
glanced at his sister and frowned. He repeated, "He can't take anything with
him."
Bobbie snickered and walked away from Van, leaving him scowling on the couch,
watching her.
Lucas raised his eyebrows, "Why would you want some whore's stuff?"
"We don't want that shit, but he does." Van said. "It'll hurt, that's all."
Lucas could easily see infant Van, gleefully tearing wings off flies and
burning anthills…anthills. Lucas tilted his head and considered.
Bobbie danced over to Lucas side, leaning on him and he fought his instinct to
throw her down. "Oh yes, it will hurt. It means so much…to Mari. Otherwise it's
just a bunch of shit. If you didn't have such a valuable product, we'd never
let her go. She's so much fun, the best toy I've had since…well. In a long
time." She pouted. "Someone's always taking my toys before I'm done with them."
Lucas sighed, he grit his teeth and counted the minutes and imagined the ways.
They made arrangements to meet in six months, and Lucas told them if they had
something he wanted at that time, they'd talk. They might as well have
something to occupy their final days, he thought.
Van sent the tall transvestite back to her room and told Lucas that she was
expecting him. Lucas grinned at Van, and laughed to himself when the man tried
to pass a snarl off as a smile. Fun.
                                  [img-thing]
Lucas walked into the dark room, swept a look around. The room was much warmer
than the rest of the apartment, and smelled better, mostly of incense and
perfume, and an underlying odd citrus smell. The walls were papered dark red,
and all the furnishing was dark, red and purple predominated. She lay on the
bed taking up one corner of the room, the rest of the room was taken up by a
sitting area, and Lucas perched on the chair that faced the bed.
The—servant—slave—he wasn't sure what to call her, looked up without much
interest, just waited.
"I bought you," he said. And the gift stretched, and opened her, his robe…
"Then you need to tell me how you want me." He raised an arm over his head, and
parted his legs slightly. Lucas was surprised. Big cock on that one…skinny, but
with real food and some training, he had the potential to be big… "Well, are we
going to fuck or what?" Red glittery lips pouted, and silver eyelids drooped.
"Is Van going to join us?"
Lucas raised an eyebrow. "Does he do that?"
"Sometimes," he smiled. "Sometimes his sister joins in…it depends."
Lucas looked around the room. There was nothing much that belonged to that
person here, he thought. Gowns draped here and there, shoes in a pile under the
bed…he glanced back and the slave was stroking himself with a little smile but
his eyes were flat and dead.
Lucas stood and walked towards an incongruous item in the room. A high school
jacket hung on a hook near the closet.
"So, do you wear this sometimes? Role play. That's hot—"
"Don't touch that," the boy hissed, and reared up from the bed like a snake.
"Okay. Got you." Lucas smirked and let the jacket drop. The boy jumped from the
bed, and crouched over the jacket, looked up from the floor into Lucas' eyes.
The boy's eyes weren't black, he saw. Not black at all, they were green and…a
trick of the light made them look briefly red. And he was much younger than
Lucas had thought at first, Lucas' age, maybe younger….
"What's happening here?" the boy asked, and there was no trace of the languid
creature that had sprawled over the satins a moment before. "How much time did
you buy?"
"No time. I bought you. You—I own you now. And I'm taking you."
The boy's eyes widened, and for a moment he looked hopeful, and then with a
thoroughness that was almost painful to watch, he went flat—dead. He shrugged.
"Let me pack."
"Nope, sorry. Van made it plain, all I bought was you. Nothing else, it all
belongs to him. Let's go."
The boy paused, hand on the jacket. "No! No—I have to take—take what's mine."
His hand clenched in the leather of the jacket, the eyes were alive again and
full of pain.
Lucas felt…sad for him. Van was crueler than he'd realized. "What does that
mean to you?" he asked, wondering if the boy would tell him.
"It's all I have left of my life," he answered, so readily Lucas was surprised.
"It's all I have…"
He glanced at a heavy ring on his finger, and Lucas sighed, and said a little
impatiently, "You've got to leave that too. Van wants everything." He pointed
at the butterfly tattoo. "I had to convince him to let you take those with
you."
The boy laughed briefly. "—take these with me? They're permanent, he'd have
to—" he went even paler, skin white as linen, and his eyes were wide with
horror. "…you're kidding."
"You know I'm not. So let's get out before he changes his mind. Take the ring
off."
The boy slipped the ring off slowly, slowly, his face going through a million
changes of expression as he did—the ring was in his palm, and anguish filled
his face. He opened his mouth and before Lucas could stop him, swallowed the
ring, gagged it down.
"Fuck kid! You could have choked on that fucking thing! Idiot!"
The kid gasped hoarsely, "Don't tell him…God, what if he notices the ring is
missing…he'll come after me, won't he?"
Lucas shook his head. "He won't. Not where you're going. He'll never see you
again."
The boy lifted his head, wiped at his mouth. "Good. Good. Take me out." He
stopped, looked at Lucas' expression, and his shoulders slumped a bit. "I have
to walk out of here naked."
"That's what he said," Lucas drawled, and the boy shrugged. Dropped his robe.
"Let's go." It was terribly arousing, the way he jumped from defiance to total
surrender…Lucas was hard in an instant. "Wait." He called down to his driver,
gave him instructions and turned back to the boy. "So…I'm having clothes sent
up for you that belong to me, and Van won't say anything. No one but me will
see you naked…so. Come here."
The boy turned, unsmiling, too calm. He walked toward Lucas and dropped to his
knees. Opened Lucas ' pants. "Tell me if you don't like this," he said. And
swallowed him down.
Lucas jerked—the inside of the boy's mouth was so warm, really warm. The heat
raced straight into his groin, the suction on his cock felt amazing. The kid
made a little move with his tongue that almost made Lucas' knees buckle. The
kid was a genius at sucking cock…hell, maybe Lex didn't need him…Lex. Lucas
groaned and panted, leaned over the kid and grabbed his shoulders hard. "Fuck,
slow down, that feels too good. Let me feel it…" the boy grunted and pulled
back some. His tongue flicked over the head of Lucas' cock, swirled around it.
He dropped back onto his heels and swallowed, Lucas could feel his cock slide
into the boy's throat, he thought of Lex standing in front of the kid, groaning
and fucking his mouth—Lucas jerked and came, the boy swallowed, and swallowed
and Lucas moaned…shit. Maybe Lex didn't need this gift; maybe he should keep
it….
 
They walked out of the apartment without incident and took the elevator all the
way down to the parking garage. The kid went from glaring at him to shivering;
looking like a deer in the headlights, until the elevator eased to a stop in
the garage. The doors opened on the dark cold space, and Lucas was startled to
see tears on the boy's face. His hands stroked the worn t-shirt he'd been given
constantly, slid up and down his denim clad thighs. He looked stunned. Lucas
felt a grudging kind of pity for the kid, and pulled his hand gently, made him
walk out into the dank air of the garage. The kid stopped and inhaled…"Is
it—it's Spring."
"Spring? What the fuck." Lucas inhaled too. "It's fucking buses and too many
fucking cars and wet, that's what it is."
"You remind me of—of someone." The kid actually laughed, and Lucas felt a
little chill run down his spine. He thought how terribly young the kid looked
and began to feel a growing sense of unease about giving Lex this gift… "Come
on, brat, make tracks, I want to get as far away as I can from these assholes."
"Yes," The kid agreed. He swiped at his cheeks and muttered, "I'm coming back
here someday…" and Lucas grinned. That kind of emotion he understood. Not that
there would be anything for the kid to come back to….
 
They were settled into the limo, and headed towards home, before the boy
finally asked, "Who are you? If I'm allowed to ask."
"Sure, why the fuck not? I'm Lucas Luthor. You've heard of the Luthors? I'm one
of them." He grinned, watching the shock on the kid's face grow.
"Lu—Luthor?"
"Yeah. If you like me, wait ‘til you meet my brother…"
The boy closed his eyes and groaned, dropped his head against the leather seat
back. Lucas heard him whisper, "Oh, no."
                                  [img-thing]
Clark felt disoriented. Everything was moving too fast—the clothes he'd been
given to wear were too tight, the material felt odd against his skin and that
upset him. They were just clothes, just normal, average clothes, the things
real people wore. The moment in the garage, the smell of Spring in the cold
damp air, had been almost too much for him—he hadn't left that apartment in
much, much longer than he'd thought. Clark could barely hold himself together
and then, and then miraculously they were in the car, driving away.
The smell of lemon polished wood filled his nose, the dim light relaxed him.
The head ache that had been marching up and down the back of his neck for the
last few days finally subsided, enough that he could actually think about
something else besides standing upright and breathing….his throat still ached.
They entered a tall building, walked briskly across a busy, noisy lobby, so
bright his eyes throbbed. Lucas pulled him into a mirror paneled elevator and
sighed. "Okay," he said and was silent. He was still holding Clark's hand,
scowling at himself in the mirrors, ignoring Clark. It gave Clark a chance to
really look at the man. He was young, not much older than he was, and good
looking in a scary kind of way. Luthor's eyes wandered his way, and Clark
fought down a shiver. He'd seen those eyes like those sometimes, men that came
to visit Van—the Gallettis. Men who did terrible things with a smile or worse,
a look of boredom. Lucas Luthor had been kinder to him than anyone had been
lately, held his hand in a gentle grip—and he still scared Clark.
 
The car opened up, and they were in the foyer of another grand apartment, but
so different than the nest that Van and Bobbie lived in…it was bright, but not
in the eye aching way that the lobby had been. It was bright with sunlight and
smelled like clean air and green plants. There was a man in the living room. He
turned and Clark saw it was Lex Luthor, and suddenly wanted to throw up.
The man who'd bought him walked over to Lex and whispered in his ear, eyes
never leaving his. Lex Luthor's eyes opened wide and then, they giggled.
Together. At him.
Lex came closer, grinning at first, but slowly the grin faded—he frowned a
little, eyes narrow as he studied Clark. He turned away, and Clark thought he
said ‘can't be'…and his heart leaped. Lex had recognized him—Lex remembered
him, he was sure of it.
Lucas came and took Clark's arm, kind of waved it at Lex. "So, here you go,
Lex-Lex. She's all yours."
Clark looked at him and said softly. "He."
Lex shook his head. "You don't belong to anyone. Not to me." Clark felt a
little sting in his chest, and he lifted his head higher. Lucas' hand came down
on his shoulder, hard.
"Oh hell yeah he does." Lucas grinned, "If not to you, than to me. Those
Gallettis got more than they should have—just so I could have this for you." He
looked at Lex. "I will be going back for my refund." He laughed lightly.
Clark swayed a little. The headache was back in full force, eating away inside.
He needed to—
"Go put that kid in bed. And then come tell me what you did, you idiot." Lex
walked away, leaving Lucas and Clark standing in the living room.
Lucas grinned. "Come on, you heard him. Bed time."
                                  [img-thing]
It was minutes before noon, the sun was just beginning to slant across the
living room floor and it made the red of the oriental carpet bright and dark as
blood. Lex looked toward the large windows that made up one half of the living
room wall, watched the sun flare off towers in the distance, idly followed the
flight of a brave and obviously hardy hawk. He felt relaxed, warm, he had a
paper spread across his lap and a hot cup of coffee steaming on the table in
front of him. He'd been avoiding thinking about the creature Lucas had brought
home last night, and doing that very successfully.
He leaned forward to take his cup, and behind him he heard a thump, and a
curse, and Lucas stumbled into sight. He was favoring one foot, he was wrinkled
and sleepy. His hair was wild, and he had a ladder of red bruises all down one
side, from armpit to hip—his bottoms slipped a little and Lex saw that the
bruises went even lower. He flopped down on the couch next to Lex, and yawned,
rubbed his stomach. Grabbed Lex's cup and drained it. Lex grimaced. "Couldn't
you have at least brushed your teeth before throwing yourself on me?"
"What, I smell?" He huffed into his palm, and made a face, lifted his arm, and
sniffed. "Woo. I do kind of reek, hunh?"
Lucas smelled and looked like rough sex, he looked rumpled and used and too
pleased with himself. Lex refused to rise to the bait. "Shouldn't you be
getting ready for work? Shower. Something…try looking a little less like you
slept in an airport terminal?"
"You're such a fucking nag. I'm heading out to the Tower in a bit…he's just
getting up too. I told him clean up and dress for breakfast." Lucas laughed,
"You'd have thought I was speaking Sanskrit or something. ‘Get dressed?'" Lucas
mimicked. "Geez, those fucking twins." He sent Lex a gentle little smile. "Wait
until I figure out what to do with them…"
Lex put his coffee down. "I want to see them. I want to talk to them, ask them
why…"
Lucas shook his head. "No."
"Dad's not in the way anymore, I need to know—"
A sound at the doorway stopped them. It was the kid. Lex jerked, covered it
with a cough. That kid looked awful—like he was two minutes from death. He was
whiter than snow, nearly fucking translucent. His eyes though…Lex felt like
they looked into him and beyond, they looked so oddly familiar. Lucas was
grinning at the boy, as if it was perfectly normal for him to be there, as if
the boy looked perfectly normal.
Lucas broke the silence with a laugh. "Hey Butterfly, did you get your ring
back?"
The kid frowned, turned a violent red and jerked his head. "Yes." He cast a
quick look at Lex, then dropped his eyes.
"What a drama queen," Lucas laughed again. "Didn't it occur to you to just hand
it to me? They weren't about to frisk me, you know."
Clark gasped, and Lex had to laugh. The look the boy turned on Lucas was so
venomous, if looks could kill, Lucas would have been a pile of smoking ash.
"We'll make sure it's clean, won't we Lucas?" Lex grinned at Clark's beet red
angry face and was treated to his own angry glare.
"So, Butterfly—"
The boy glared and snarled, his voice deeper than Lex had thought it was.
"Clark. My fucking name is Clark."
Impossible—coincidence—it had to be. There was no way this could be… "Where are
you from Clark?"
"You know where—he got me from Van Galletti."
"No, where did you come from—I mean, where were you born?"
Clark started to laugh, little giggles that slowly turned into great hysterical
peals of laughter. Lucas giggled along with him, and looked at Lex. He
snickered and told him, "Warm milk, or hot tea, lots of sugar. He's having a
little meltdown here. I'm sure you can handle it, big brother. Ciao baby," he
waved at Clark. "See you later."
Lucas strolled out, leaving Lex with a huge hysterical boy, and a million
questions.
                                  [img-thing]
Clark was sitting huddled at the end of the table, a mug of tea clasped in his
hands and a plate of cookies that he stared at as if they were poisonous
snakes. Without the makeup, without the disturbingly sexy outfit and his hair
wet and pulled back from his face, he looked an underfed twelve. Lex's heart
went out to him—he remembered himself in almost the same position. Yanked away
from those…those two, dropped on his dad's doorstep with no more word of
explanation than when he'd been given to them. He'd felt sick, scared, lost…at
least this boy didn't have to deal with all that and Dad too.
"You don't have to worry anymore, Clark. You're safe here with us," he said, in
as reassuring a tone as he could.
Clark's head jerked up and a crooked smile twisted his red lips. "'Safe with
us?' With Lucas? He's safe?" He stared at Lex until Lex felt silly."
"Okay…you're safe with me."
Clark smiled wider, the tip of a canine showed, and his eyes looked wild. "Oh
sure, sure I am. Thanks for buying me. I feel safer all ready. Can I go, or do
you want me to…do anything right now?" His hands went under the table; Lex
figured he was trying to hide how they trembled.
"No…no, you go. I'll talk to you later."
Clark left, and the heavy energy that fizzed and popped along his nerves the
moment Clark had walked into the room eased. He took a deep breath. He hoped
the kid had someplace to go—and hoped that it was soon.
***** Chapter 16 *****
 [img-thing]
A few days went by, and a disruption at one of the plants kept Lex busy,
working late into the nights, some days not making it home at all. When he was
finally able to go home, he'd sometimes find Clark in his study reading,
sometimes watching television. Lex liked that, he liked coming into the room
and finding Clark there. The lamps in the study lent his skin a golden hue, and
he looked so different, so—alive. Sometimes he'd look up and smile and Lex felt
it had been worth any frustration to get that look from Clark at the end of the
day.
Unless Lucas was home. If Lucas was in the apartment, then Clark and he would
be in his suite, doors locked and Lex found himself hating that locked door.
 
"I bought him for you and you didn't want him." Lucas was sullen, angry that
Lex questioned him about Clark.
"We don't—you don't own him, Lucas. The law frowns on owning people, in case
you weren't aware. Wherever he came from, offer to return him there. And leave
him alone."
Lucas focused on Lex. "Why? He likes it when I fuck him, not like he turns me
down," he said, and smirked.
Lex inhaled deeply, and let his breath out slowly, counting to ten… "How do you
know he likes it? Does the kid even know he can say ‘no'?"
Lucas opened his mouth to protest, and then stopped. He looked mildly
surprised. "Hunh. You're right." He shrugged. "Oh well. He'll figure it out
after a while."
"Lucas! You have to tell him he can refuse you. You have to make him understand
that we don't own him."
Lucas growled. "Stop trying to tell me what to do." He frowned, yanking at the
buttons on his jacket. Essentially, pouted like a toddler. After a moment or
two, he stood and snapped, "Fine, fuck you, I'll talk to him."
He stalked out of the room and Lex rubbed his temples. Sometimes, talking to
Lucas was like talking to Dad. He had as much a sense of morality as the old
man. He'd probably keep on screwing Clark, because he really thought he owned
him and couldn't understand what was wrong with that. Lex sighed. He was fairly
certain that Lucas wouldn't hurt Clark too badly, but….
He walked out of the room and called out, "Lucas, wait—"
                                  [img-thing]
"Clark… sleeping with Lucas…is it something that you want to do?" The table was
set for the two of them, and Clark sat across from him, drawing a spoon through
the bowl of soup. Back and forth, and a barely damp spoon was lifted to his
lips, and back into the soup, back and forth… "Clark…"
Clark nodded. "Yes, I do." He held the spoon to his mouth, tilted it, and Lex
knew there was nothing on that spoon.
"He told you you don't have to, didn't he?"
Clark looked at him then, set the spoon down. "What…did he really mean?" He
looked confused, and unhappy.
"He meant, and I mean—you do not have to sleep with him. If he wants you in
bed, you can refuse." Lex's hands were under the table, so tight his nails cut
painfully into his palms. He forced them open, looked down and was surprised
not to see blood. "I'm telling you, you have a choice."
Clark shook his head, and kept shaking it. He looked angry, so angry.
"Clark, I promise, I'm not lying. Can you come closer, sit by me?"
Clark reluctantly moved closer, and Lex indicated the chair next to him. "Sit."
Clark dropped into the chair, and the look on his face was pure Lucas—angry,
withdrawn, sullen. Lex had a lot of experience with angry young men. He ripped
a piece from the roll next to his plate, buttered it and handed it to Clark.
"Eat that."
"Um...I'm full—"
"Full, my ass. I doubt you've had a full meal since you've come here. Eat this
or I'll—I'll put your hair in pigtails. And then pull them."
Clark looked startled—furious until he realized that Lex was teasing. "Oh
yeah?"
Lex nodded, "And then, I'll dip them in an inkwell—and I'm rich, I can have one
made just for dipping."
Clark grinned against his will, and Lex handed him the bit of roll. "Eat or
else…" he said warningly, mimed pulling hair, and then smiled at Clark, hoping
the warmth he felt showed.
"Okay, okay." Clark took the roll, and chewed it down and then a bit more and a
bit more. Lex kept up light chatter as he did, ignoring the fact he was feeding
Clark, talking about nothing important, and doing his best to try and relax the
boy somewhat. The stiffness in his posture eased a bit, and his eyes sparkled a
little…they were green as the ocean, and a little ring of gold ran around his
pupils, like the corona of the sun…he'd seen eyes like that once before, he was
positive he knew Clark but the memory was dim and clouded, like a lot of old
memories were—some thanks to Dad, and yes, some of that loss was self-induced.
He was reluctant to probe that memory. He' done a lot that he wasn't
particularly proud of before Lucas came into his life.
Clark was watching when he turned his attention back to him, watching him in an
odd searching way—as if he expected him to suddenly leap up and eat him whole.
"You okay, Clark?"
Clark nodded and smiled, so sweet that Lex smiled in return.
The door opened and Lucas loped in. "Cool, dinner, I'm fucking starving. I've
been in meetings all day long." He let his eyes linger on Clark, a smirk bowing
his lips. He licked his lips and said, "I'm really hungry—come feed me,
Butterfly."
Clark turned bright red and looked into his lap, the last piece of bread
falling in tiny shreds to his lap. Lex reached over and touched fingertips to
his hand. "Hey, what did we talk about?"
Clark swallowed, stuttered, "I—I would rather sit here. With Lex. For a minute.
And please. Don't call me that."
Lucas looked surprised. "What do you mean, Butterfly? Sorry, I mean, Clark? You
really don't want to fuck?"
"I…I don't want to, no. If I can say no, then…I say no." Clark lifted his head,
and his eyes narrowed, his nostrils flared. He said fiercely, "That's what I
want."
Lex felt ridiculously proud of the boy. Lucas was staring at him, his eyes
flat, and cold. Not angry, not—anything. He shook, a slow motion shudder that
rolled over him like a wave and reminded Lex of a snake swallowing an egg…or a
rabbit, and then, Lucas smiled, laughed. "Shit. Okay then. But anytime you want
to sleep with me, my door's open to you." He turned to walk away, and then
turned back. "And it's okay to just sleep, Clark. We don't have to do anything,
okay? I…like you."
Lex raised an eyebrow—that was unexpected. Clark licked his lips, a little
nervous, but smiled a great big sun filled smile. "Thank you. Thank you very
much."
"Oh, baby. You don't know." Lucas laughed, and walked out.
Clark stared at the doorway for a long moment, until Lex touched him again.
Clark turned to him and the smile was less wide, but it felt more intimate, Lex
thought and felt his heart speed up a little. What was it about this boy….
"Why does he call you butterfly?" Lex asked and Clark sighed, He dipped his
head, and his hair fell forward, covering his face.
"You want to see?" he asked in a small voice. Clark pushed the thick fall of
hair back, and began to unbutton the shirt he was wearing, one of Lucas'
shirts. One by one, the buttons opened, and Clark's fingers hesitated, trembled
on each one. The cuffs already hung open and loose, the sleeves were too short
to fit and Clark's wrists were bony, but bigger than Lucas'. He slipped the
shirt back, and twisted quickly before Lex got more than an impression of a
flat chest, and deep rose nipples—Clark's back was to him, and a large purple
and green butterfly covered one wing-like shoulder blade. It was beautiful and
detailed, and certainly no reason to be ashamed—except that Lex understood. He
knew what the tattoo represented in Clark's mind. He walked closer, and up
close, the green seemed to shimmer—he reached out and touched it and Clark
flinched. "Oh."
"Sorry, it just looked…"
"Oh no, it's just…it's sore sometimes, that's all. I don't mind if you touch
it. Go ahead." Clark bent his head, the movement of his shoulder made the
butterfly look like its wings were moving…Lex traced the sweep of one wing,
over Clark's shoulder, across his collar bone…his breath came sharper, and he
pulled his finger away. Turned from Clark. "It's very beautiful. Van made you
do that?"
Clark snapped the shirt back over his shoulders and hurriedly buttoned it.
"Yes."
"Look Clark." Clark turned back to him, his face and neck a blaze of red. Lex
unbuttoned his own shirt, one cuff and slid his arm out; high on the inside of
his bicep was a word. Clark tilted his head down, took Lex's arm in his hand
and turned it a bit so that he could read what was drawn into Lex's skin—he
hissed a little and drew his hand away. Lex felt warm all over, and knew that
he was blushing from embarrassment, maybe shame…."You understand what it
means?"
He nodded. "Why didn't you get that removed," Clark asked, sympathy in his
eyes.
"For a long time, I felt—like it was true. When they—sent me back home, my dad
thought it was amusing and refused to remove it." He looked up and caught
Clark's eyes. "I am going to have it taken off. What about you…do you want that
taken off?"
Clark shrugged. "I haven't thought about it." He looked a little angry. "I
haven't had time to think about it, you know?"
"Ah—yeah. I get it. Lucas—"
"It's not just that. It's—everything. I have all this time now to think
about—everything. How fucked up I made my own life. How stupidly I trusted
people, how they keep leaving me…" Clark wiped at his eyes, and muttered.
"Fuck, I'm so stupid."
He stared at his hands flat on the table and Lex wanted to cover Clark's hands
with his own. He started to move—stopped. Clark didn't need Lex pushing himself
at him. What he needed was room to breathe, to find himself again. Lex felt
Clark's pain like it was his own, wished that he could help in some way…make
the pain less.
"Clark…it will get better. I can tell, you're strong. You'll get through
this—you'll deal with it—"
"I'm so fucking sick and tired of being strong. I'm tired of dealing with it,
I'm tired of trying to make everyone else happy—fuck. You don't understand
what—oh shit. Never mind. I'm just so dumb." He jumped up and ran out before
Lex could say yes, he understood, every little bit of it, he did understand.
The quiet in the dining room was broken by a loud rapping—Clark knocking on
Lucas' door, asking if he could come in. Lex leaned his head on his hands. He
knew what was happening to Clark, and he wanted desperately to save him, he
needed to save him….
                                  [img-thing]
God, what the hell was Dad thinking? A shit factory in the middle of nowhere.
I'm knee deep in it now, that's for sure—literally and figuratively.
The corn is flying past me on both sides—but what do I need to look at corn
for, Kansas is fucking made of corn. I'm just in the middle of planning what to
do to Dad when he's too fucking old to defend himself when my phone rings. I
glance down not more than a fucking second and when I look up again, something
on the road is rolling toward me, flying toward me, trying to kill me!
Fuck—fuck—
It's black, and then I open my eyes, I'm alive. There's a noise, the noise that
woke me, tapping—someone's knocking on the glass. I turn and see the most
beautiful green eyes, the most beautiful mouth. Oh my god, what a mouth. My
head is pounding, I feel like throwing up, but I'd still fuck that mouth right
here and now and God, I'm really hoping I get a chance…"Hey, are you okay?" the
kid asks. I want to say yeah, but it's too much trouble. I want to say hell
no—but if you blow me I'll fake it.
I drag myself out of the car, and it's a fucking mess. Nose down in a ditch.
Drivable but shit, I had the fucker less than three days, and look at it…
"Fuck. Fuck me." The incredible Adonis comes around the side of the car,
damn…that cocksucker mouth…shit. The kid is staring at me like I'm an ice-cream
cone. Fuck, yeah… "Hey, kid, I think you saved my life."
Lex woke up violently, the feeling of falling from a height making him thrash.
Sweat made the sheets cling to his skin and he jerked away from the damp touch.
He wondered what he'd been dreaming that made him jerk like that—and the dream
rushed back to him. That accident. The one that changed—everything for him. And
the kid. He knew it. Clark was the kid who'd saved his life, and he had almost
raped him in return. Clark Kent. From Smallville. How the hell did he get from
Hicksville Kansas and his blonde boy scout, to being a sex toy for Van
Galletti?
                                  [img-thing]
"Clark, Clark…" Lucas had his hair twisted into a long black rope, and the rope
of hair was wrapped around his wrist, like reins, He pulled the thick rope
back, and Clark sank onto his dick and grunted—Lucas moaned loudly, and
shuddered. Clark could feel his dick move, spurt inside of him, Lucas told him
what was happening "—coming, coming you're so tight, filling you, hot—fuck!"
Clark managed to bring himself off just before Lucas rolled off his back and
dropped to the mattress. He groaned as his weight lifted, lay on his side for a
moment and then got up, walked to the bathroom. He didn't bother talking to
Lucas. Lucas wasn't much on talking afterwards. Most times, he just dropped off
to sleep. Clark didn't mind. He didn't have much to say to him anyway. To
anyone after sex.
He leaned over the sink, waiting the seconds it took for the water to run hot
and glanced at himself in the mirror. He looked different. Not as pinched, he
thought. Almost normal. Whatever that was.
Billows of steam rose up from the sink and fogged the mirror, he washed his
face in the hot water and his thoughts wandered to Lex. Lex seemed different
too; he seemed very different from that guy he'd met in Smallville. That guy
was a lot more like Lucas—sexy and mysterious, a little dangerous, and the
feature of a lot of jerk off fantasies. This guy, this different Lex, seemed
like a good person. He reminded him a little of Whitney, in the way he cared,
the way he knew when to back off. Clark sighed. And that train of thought
should not be followed, not right now.
Clark turned on the shower, his body on autopilot as his mind kept going to
Lex. He wondered what could have happened to change him so?
Lex should be just like Lucas and he wasn't. Clark shivered. He was glad about
that—he didn't think he could survive another twisted pair. Even here in the
safety of Lex's house, every time he had sex with Lucas, afterward Clark was
just kind of relieved and grateful that he hadn't been killed and eaten. He
snorted, and was a little surprised that he felt like laughing. Yesterday at
dinner with Lex had been the first time he'd really laughed, or wanted to
since—since.
Clark worked shampoo into his hair and thought. How much freedom did he really
have? Or was this just a nicer enslavement? How far could he go, what would
they let him do? He rinsed the soap from his hair, from his body and thought
the only way to find out was to ask.
Lucas was still knocked out, snoring and wrapped in the sheets, looking like an
innocent. Totally unlike his waking self.
Clark looked down on him, and felt a spark of gratitude. Thank God Lucas was
completely crazy about Lex. It probably kept him from doing a lot of damage.
Speaking of Lex, Clark wondered if he was up yet—and a sharp stab of pain shot
up his neck and lodged behind his ear, and he heard—Lex talking, breathing, and
that had to be his imagination. Clark shook his head. He rubbed behind his ear.
It burned and throbbed, and it was happening more often, and he was beginning
to realize it had nothing to do with migraines or other human stuff. This thing
that happened, this pain and stuff, it had to be about him being an alien. What
if there was something wrong with him, some disease that only aliens got? He
bit at his lip. If that was true and it might get worse, then he was dead. No
one on this planet knew what was wrong—or what was normal for him. A sick,
empty feeling crept over him, but he pushed it back. It was like Lex had said.
He'd have to deal. He'd find a way, and learn to deal with it, like he always
did.
                                  [img-thing]
Lex was talking rapidly into a phone squeezed under his chin, juggling his
briefcase and an earpiece and hurriedly gulping a cup of coffee in the foyer.
Clark watched the performance with interest. Lex snapped the phone shut, and
glanced up. He looked surprised and pleased to see Clark. The obvious pleasure
in his expression warmed Clark, made him feel a little lighter.
"Clark." Lex set his cup on the long marble table that ran the length of the
foyer. "Can I help you?"
Clark licked his lips, and wondered how to ask him. He stuttered for a moment,
and then, something rose up in him, something he hadn't felt in a long
time—"It's a nice day, and I'm bored—I want to go out." He stared at Lex,
forced a scowl.
Lex looked surprised but not offended at the tone of Clark's voice. "Of
course," he said, "If you don't mind waiting a minute." He set his briefcase
down, and marched back to his office. He returned after a moment with a cell
phone. "Here. Take this," he punched in numbers. "This is me, this is Lucas,
and this is the staff number. If you don't feel comfortable for any reason,
call—here." Lex reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, "Take this,
and you can take a cab home, all right? And here." He handed Clark a card. "You
might need this. Get some real clothes," he smiled. Clark was fully aware that
Lucas' t-shirt and jeans didn't quite fit him; his sneakers were a little too
tight—
Lex hesitated, and grabbed his briefcase. He looked away from Clark.
"You—you're coming back here?"
Clark smiled. "Where else would I go, Lex?"
Lex looked like he wanted to speak, but nodded. "We can share a limo downtown
if you like."
"That would be nice."
                                  [img-thing]
Lex shook his hand. "Have fun," he said, and left Clark on the sidewalk in
front of LexCorp. Clark turned; he could see the top of LuthorCorp Tower from
where he stood. Lex was gone, and Clark felt a moment of fear. He was alone on
the street again. A shiver ran through him and he looked around at the swiftly
passing crowd, people parting to avoid him. He remembered those first few days
in Metropolis, frightened and lonely…until he found friends…until a long chain
of events catapulted him into the Galletti world.
What if the Galletti's found him—would they try to take him? What if he saw
Jake, or Eric? What should he do if he saw Eric…Clark blushed, filled with
shame. If he saw him, he'd run. If he saw any of the people he knew from the
market, he'd run. Clark wheeled and hurried up the sidewalk. Lex said he should
get what he needed, and since he had no money and no prospect of a job any too
soon, and sure as hell didn't have any pride anymore, he'd be stupid not to
take advantage.
                                  [img-thing]
He wandered the street, still getting used to the novelty of having time that
was completely his, and not some minutes parceled out to him. He did normal
things, looked in store windows, bought pretzels from vendors, strolled around
a giant chain book store, spent long minutes poring over racks of CDs, and
wandering through shelves of books. He smiled at giggling girls, and considered
a pretty guy who walked pointedly to the bathroom…in the end, he left with only
a CD and a few books….
He roamed through the crowds and watched people's faces, wondered which of them
was like him—normal only on the outside, inside filled with horrible secrets.
                                  [img-thing]
It was afternoon. The sun was high, and the air was warmer and under the stink
of diesel, the smell of damp, growing things brought him a little sense of
peace, he felt almost happy. He'd done well for himself so far—in addition to
the CD and the books, he'd bought a few t-shirts, and a couple of pairs of
jeans, and now he was taking a break, sipping a soda, sitting on the low wall
that encircled a park. People in business suits rushed by, takeout bags in
their hands, or newspapers, or phones, nearly identical harried expressions on
all of them. He grinned—they reminded him, made him want to call Lex. He
punched in the number and Lex answered right away.
"Clark—is anything wrong?"
Clark grinned, said, "Nope, I just thought maybe I should check in." There was
silence and then Lex said, "You didn't have to, but I'm certainly glad you
did." They were both quite for a moment; Clark felt a loosening inside, like a
knot was being opened. Lex spoke again. "I hope you're having a good time."
Clark sighed. "I am, thank you, Lex."
"It's fine, Clark. Show me everything you bought tonight?"
"Sure, Lex. I'll see you tonight." Again a silence on the line, and Lex said.
"Goodbye, Clark." Clark folded the phone into his pocket and the thought
occurred to him that Lex might need a little reassurance from time to time,
himself. A tall blonde stalked past him, walking a fluffy little dog on a leash
studded with what looked like gemstones. It had a bow in its hair, and the
collar matched what the blonde was wearing. Clark shuddered, grabbed his bags
and walked quickly in the opposite direction.
                                  [img-thing]
He was walking along, trying to decide which store to enter before heading
home. He wanted to shower and wear one of the outfits for Lex…just so he could
see what he spent his money on….
He stopped in front of one, more to look at the flashing videos than what was
actually in the store.
"You're not going to find anything to fit you in there, you're too big—not to
mention a man." A gray haired, stout woman stood next to him, a huge shopper's
bag hanging from her shoulder—on her the bag looked small. She gave the
impression of being in motion, even though she was standing still, looking up
into Clark's face with a grin.
Clark suddenly realized he'd been staring in the window of a store that catered
to young girls. "Oh gosh—Sponge Bob—" he pointed at the flashing video screens
inside the store. "It's been a while since I've seen cartoons—oh man, I'm not a
pervert, I swear!"
She laughed, "I'm pretty good at picking up on pervert vibes—not getting them
from you. Your taste is another matter, though." She shook her head. "Sponge
Bob? Bugs Bunny, now that's when cartoons were good."
Clark's guard slipped, he laughed out loud. She was a cocoa brown, with a smile
just like Pete's and Clark thought maybe that was why he instantly felt
comfortable with the old lady. "Where you want to go son, is that store over
there. Tall and big. You ain't big but you are tall. Plus, they're reasonable.
Say—if you don't mind me saying so, you have beautiful eyes. Remind me of
someone I met a long time ago."
Clark blushed, and she grinned, "Oh now, that's so cute," and after
recommending another store, she walked on, leaving Clark feeling a lot braver
and a little more normal. He'd talked to a stranger and she hadn't been
horrified, or repulsed, in fact, she seemed to like him…he straightened, and
pushed the hair away from his face.
The store she pointed out had a display of manikins posed in front of a huge
photo of James Dean in a red jacket; the manikins were wearing similar jackets.
Oh, he had to have that jacket.
When it was in his hand, he remembered he'd had a red jacket like this before,
when he was a little kid. He sighed. And now, it was in his baby sister's room.
The soft red pillow he'd loved just as much as when it'd been a jacket and the
only security blanket he'd ever wanted.
                                  [img-thing]
He sat on a bench inside the park, eating a hot dog and admiring his feet. He
had a bright white pair of brand new sneakers on his feet, new jeans, a new
shirt—he was a little worried. The sneakers had cost so much but none of the
cheaper ones had fit. Brand new clothes...something no one else had worn
before. Real clothes that real people wore—not costumes, not some get up picked
out for him but his very own choice.
Clark sighed, content. He ran his hand down one thigh. The denim was a little
stiff, kind of heavy. Like the new jeans his mom would buy him at the start of
the school year. The bags between his feet contained more jeans and shirts, and
a sweater, and lots of boxers and socks, probably too many—a robe, and real
pajamas. He even bought his favorite toothpaste, a backpack and a travel kit,
just in case Lex and Lucas got really mad and threw him out. He'd have to find
a place to hide the pack. Just in case.
He watched moms playing with their kids and thought about the package sitting
in one of his bags. A pink teddy bear; wrapped, and ready to ship. He'd been
carrying it around all day. Trying to decide if he should send it home or not.
He watched the little kids running around, screaming and laughing and being
kids. He glanced at the clock on the bank across the street from the park, and
knew exactly what his folks were doing right now, where his dad was on the
farm, where his mom was—in the kitchen and-and right now, probably feeding
Corinne. Or maybe taking her for a walk—and finally came to a decision.
An hour later, the package was on its way to Smallville. He wanted to write a
note, but decided not to. He'd thought for a long moment about dropping Whit's
ring into the box but when he tried to slide the ring over his knuckle that
horrible sucking wave pulled him under, almost made him gather up the box and
bear and throw it all away, because if they remembered him, they sure wouldn't
want his alien ass anywhere near their normal kid. He'd been frozen with
uncertainty, but finally, he'd taken a deep breath and decided to take a
chance. He was glad he did. Even if he never met his little sister, she'd know
that somewhere out there, she had a big brother who thought about her and loved
her. And now, maybe there was another chance he should take.
 
"It's me, Lex. Hey, is there any possibility of catching a ride back home with
you?"
                                  [img-thing]
The noise on the secured level subsided as the lights came up. Lights meant
visitors and visitors meant…anything.
Lucas smiled as the director and he passed the locked doors, watching through
the small windows, the differing reactions of the inmates. Most looked hostile,
curious, a few looked frightened….
His visit to the lab was two-fold, partly business, partly personal curiosity.
He was still mulling over what to do with this whole project—terminate it, give
it to Lex, play with it a bit himself. Logic told him to let Lex deal with it
all, he was hardly equipped to care about the fates of a bunch of oddballs…but
at the moment he had a specific goal in mind. There was something he'd found
about an inmate here that had interested him more for what it didn't say, than
what it did. An interesting subject, barely touched on, and when that happened
it almost always meant there was something very interesting to be uncovered.
Lucas grinned. If there was anything he loved, it was a mystery—or more to the
point, uncovering and taking what someone tried to hide from him.
He been led, reluctantly to a cell on the lowest level, the whacko level, he
grinned to himself. The twisted little man in the terribly cut suit, Director
Smith, complained quietly that the inmate was dangerous, that the inmate
required special handling, and that he couldn't be held responsible for what
happened if Lucas didn't follow the rules in dealing with this particular
person…Lucas tuned him out. He knew bullshit when he heard it, and no one ever
had much luck changing his mind once he set on a course of action.
Lucas laughed quietly to himself as the director pointed him down a short dark
hall. Paydirt. He had a suspicion of what was going on here as soon as he
passed the guards. He recognized that certain look of sick guilt and fear,
worry about losing their jobs—or worse. Human nature being what it was, Lucas
anticipated a good time.
He walked into the small concrete box of a cell, and let out a whistle of
surprise. The creature inside crouched next to a cot, the only other thing in
the room besides herself and a security camera high in a corner, out of her
reach. She stared at him through the ragged fringe of hair hanging in her eyes,
tracking his movement. He clicked a little device in his pocket and moved
around the cell, keeping his back to the camera and she kept her eyes on him.
As he paced, he spoke.
"There are place here that look like apartments. Where there's a bed, and a
bathroom and there are books, movies…there's a dining hall…" he laughed, a low
slide of sound and she flinched. "There's a new movie every Friday night,
popcorn and soda for everyone…there's a life of sorts and all you have to do is
take the medicine. You know, the one that slows you down. Makes you more like
normal…just a little bit of it."
She glared at him, her eyes wide and black. Her lips curled back from her teeth
and she shook her head, once, sharp.
"I promise you, it will be better if you take it. For one thing," he turned and
smiled at the doorway, the closed door. "No one will enter your room without
clearance from me. No one but me will turn the cameras off. And the tests will
be as comfortable as I can make them—as comfortable as for the rest of the
brats on the ‘nice' level. You'll still have your talent—" Lucas watched her
shudder. "So you'll move slower, you'll be a little less strong. How can that
hurt?"
She scuttled back, pushed herself against the block wall. He head was down and
she was shaking it—no, no, no….
"Someday, you'll have to trust someone. I think you and I are pretty much the
same. Why not trust me? And a word of advice." He crouched down as well, close
to her. He trailed a fingertip along the line of her tense jaw, smirked when
she jerked back from his touch. "Stop scaring them, and they'll stop trying to
prove how not afraid they are. What do you say?"
She stared at him, hard...did nothing but breathe, Lucas did nothing but watch
her and after a bit, she nodded.
"Good."
He turned to the door and listened to something in his ear, glanced up at the
camera in the corner. She followed his line of sight, and snarled. Lucas shook
his head, reached into his jacket, took an envelope from a pocket inside.
"Here." He handed her a photo. "Recognize him?"
She nodded and Lucas said, "That's my big brother. I love my brother. Love him
very, very much. Too much to hurt him. But you—I don't give a shit about.
Understand?"
"…the boy." Her voice was rusty when she answered, creaked from lack of use.
"He's grown." She frowned in concentration. "I know him young." She coughed and
her voice was clearer when she spoke again, "I copy him younger, I mean."
Lucas lifted an eyebrow. "Really? Show me…"
"He wanted this," she smiled, and her smile was off, off. She shifted, and Lex
stood in front of him, thin, so thin and frail and young…clear gray eyes
shimmering with tears. He lifted thin delicate hands, held them in front of his
face, warding off hurt. "Please, Dad. Please don't—"
Through a fog of red, a roaring in his ears like thunder, Lucas reached out and
backhanded her—she tumbled against the cot and dropped to the floor like a
broken doll. "Not like that ever again." He threw the photo at her. "Like that,
got it? Only like that."
The insane smile crawled across her face again. "All right." She shimmered
again. Lex crouched on the floor. "Don't hit me again, please. I'll do whatever
you say, anything..."
Lucas grabbed her hand and yanked her upright. "No."
She looked into his eyes, staring so intensely, he felt something claw at his
soul…at something inside him.
She/Lex smiled—and punched him.
He flew backward, hitting the wall with a slam that rattled every bone in his
body. He hit the floor and yelped in pain. Blood filled his mouth where he'd
bitten deep into his lip and drooled in a thin rope down his chin. He smiled.
"That's better." He sprawled where he'd landed on the floor and watched her/him
untie the string belt of the scrubs.
Lex grinned. "Come here, baby brother—let's have some fun."
                                  [img-thing]
"Lucas, don't come over tonight."
"What? Why not…you planning something with Clark?"
"I want him to talk to me—I'm hoping to get him to open up to me."
"Yeah? Well enjoy, I liked getting him open, too."
"Christ." Lex hung up. Lucas could be such a pig. He listened to the sound of
the shower running and sighed. How much Clark would be willing to tell him, he
had no idea. He could be surprisingly forthcoming, when he chose—but at other
times, he disappeared inside himself, so completely that it left Lex wondering
if he ever saw the real Clark, or just the face Clark was trained to show.
Sometimes, Lex wished he was as heartless as Lucas.
This afternoon had been a revelation…it was like watching a chrysalis crack
open. Clark had definitely stretched today, it'd been kind of like—okay,
miracle might be overstating it, he thought, but the way Clark's face just
glowed as he'd handed Lex his card back and tried to show him everything he'd
bought—the way he kept apologizing for spending too much money on shoes, for
heaven's sake. Lex was also thinking about the way Clark had automatically gone
to Lucas' room with his bags, chattering on happily and insisting that Lex keep
him company as he emptied his bags, put his few new purchases in the drawers
Lucas kept extra clothes in…he kept thinking too, about the way he'd pulled his
t-shirt off, and looked at him for a long moment, before announcing that he was
taking a shower. And at that point, Lex almost stopped thinking. Thankfully,
the part of himself that never, ever stopped thinking took over and sent his
body out of the room.
He was watching a movie, something very loud and full of explosions and he was
certainly not waiting for Clark, but he was pleased when he joined him on the
couch, fresh, clean, and completely dressed. He wore a shirt that was actually
very nice, a slim cut purple shirt. Lex complimented him on it, and Clark
blushed.
"I saw someone wear one like it once, I thought it looked nice. And the clerk
helped me pick it out. He was very nice, too," Clark said, and Lex didn't think
he cared much for the way Clark smiled when he said it.
"Clark…" he was about to say that he needed to be careful, but hesitated.
Maybe…that was a ridiculous thing to say. Clark was watching him again, looking
expectant. "You look very nice in that shirt."
"Thank you, Lex." He yawned, and stretched; very casually letting his fingers
brush the back of Lex's neck. Lex was paralyzed between warring desires—to
snicker at the surprisingly(but endearingly) unsmooth move, to lean into the
touch, to yank Clark's arms around him and climb into his lap and…thankfully
Clark accidentally gave him a reprieve.
"Lex, would you mind keeping me company?" He indicated the thick mass of still
wet hair. "I have to take care of this mess before it gets worse."
Lex shrugged, trying to mask his gasp of relief. "Why not?"
Clark asked him to come out on the patio, so the sun could help to dry his
hair. Lex sat on a bench across from the one Clark chose. It was nice, a light
breeze kept the air from being too warm. Lex pulled a chair around to face him.
Clark in the sun was a private addiction.
"I guess I'll braid it today," Clark said and with a little sigh, began to pull
the comb through his hair in long strokes as he talked again about his day and
Lex watched him struggle through the tangles. After a bit, he asked, "Do you
want me to do that for you?"
"If you like," Clark said. "It'll give my arms a break." He handed Lex the comb
and settled himself backward on the bench, facing away from Lex. Lex ran his
hand through the hair, lifting it. It was still damp but already warm from the
sun, and oddly heavy. He pulled the comb through, and red highlights gleamed
along the length as the sun lit it. The strands fell through his fingers like a
fall of silk, and it was the most sensual thing he'd felt in a very long time.
Touching Clark's hair, sliding it through his fingers, the way it felt warm and
almost alive against his palm was having an effect on him. On Clark too, it
seemed, he arched into each stroke, and murmured happily. Lex worked the comb
through a tangle. "I'm not pulling too much, am I? This isn't something I have
much experience with," he said with a wry smile.
Clark chuckled. "No, no—you're doing it just right. Funny, I hate it so much
when Bobbie combs my hair, but you…you make it feel good."
Lex's breath hitched, and he bit his lip. He concentrated on combing, but that
also meant concentrating on Clark, the way he smelled, the way his skin was so
warm and smooth, the way his lips glistened when the pink tip of his tongue ran
over them…Lex was sure his heart was beating hard enough for Clark to hear….
"Do you like having it combed—by other people?" He sounded breathless to his
own ears, felt a flush of warmth on his cheeks.
Clark was quiet for a long moment, and shrugged slightly. "I never thought
about it. It's just a lot of hair." He was quiet again, leaning back towards
Lex, who could feel heat from Clark's body, heat from the sun sinking into him,
relaxing him. Lex was so relaxed, so into his task he was a little startled
when Clark went on. "It's heavy…I feel it all the time, like a weight."
Lex slowed his strokes, and pulled his fingers gently through the gleaming
strands, from crown to the ends, enjoying the feel, and he did it again, over
and over and Clark said, "It feels like it's pulling me down…."
Lex stopped. "Do you want to cut it?"
Clark looked over his shoulder at Lex. "Can I?"
"You can do what you want, Clark. Whatever you want." Lex dropped the hair,
thought for a moment. "Would you like to cut it now? I can get someone here in
a few minutes and—"
"Can you cut it? I would like very much for you to cut it."
"Clark—I'll butcher it! All I can do is chop the ends off. You need a
professional. Someone who can make it look nice…"
"I want you to do it. Please."
"All right, all right. I don't have shears in the house, just scissors in the
office—wait. Lucas has to have some shears, with eyebrows like his, I'd think
it was a necessity."
Clark laughed, a startled burst of appalled amusement. "Lex! Don't say that!"
After a second he said with a sly grin, "They are kind of thick, aren't they?"
Lex searched Lucas' room, and found a pair of small, but very sharp, scissors.
When he came out to the patio, Clark was sitting with his shirt off and though
he was awfully thin, with the sun warming his pale skin, he looked a little
more like the boy he'd seen in Smallville. Except for the hair…Lex sighed. The
hair fell over his shoulders so beautifully, framed his face in gentle
waves—he'd miss it, a little.
"I thought I'd take the shirt off, so I wouldn't get hair in it." The shirt was
folded neatly over the back of a chair next to him. He looked up at Lex. His
eyes were wide, the pupils large so that only a rim of gold flecked green
showed. "I'm ready for you."
Lex swallowed, snapped the shears once or twice. "So…you sure you trust me?" He
tried to smile, but Clark seemed to take the question very seriously.
"I do…"
Clark stopped, and looked away from him. He repeated, "I do," thoughtfully. As
if, Lex thought, Clark was experimenting with the idea. Lex poked his shoulder.
"Turn around, my friend, and hope for the best."
Lex grabbed a few strands of hair and cut through them. Clark shivered;
gooseflesh marched across his shoulders and down his spine. Bit by bit, the
scissors went through the hair, snick, snick, and it fell away. The whole thing
felt odd, Lex thought, almost ceremonial—as though he and Clark were performing
some sort of ritual. It was also strangely arousing, the way the hair fell away
and exposed a little more of Clark, each fresh cut made Clark squirm, little
noises escaped him. Lex looked over his shoulder, his nipples were hard and the
outline of Clark's dick was clear, pushing against his trousers. It was the
same for him. "Bend your neck," Lex said, and his voice was husky. Clark
shivered and bent it, and a blush turned the pale skin there pink.
Lex snipped away silently, and finally, turned him. "That's that—we can have a
stylist fix it for you, but all that hair is gone."
All round them black hair littered the floor, what the scissors hadn't taken
curled gently around Clark's flushed face. Lex couldn't stop. He leaned over
took Clark's chin in his fingers and pressed his mouth against his sun warm
cheek.
Clark surged up from the bench and wrapped his arms around Lex, crowding him,
pressing their hips together. He was groaning into Lex's mouth, and thrusting
against him, and Lex was lost—-for a moment.
"Hey, hey…hold on, wait!"
"Why? I can tell you want me," he rubbed his erection against Lex's, "and you
can tell I want you. Besides, I owe you for—for what you gave me."
"Clark, I'd be an idiot not to want someone was beautiful as you. I'd be blind
and stupid and dead from the neck down not to want you—but you don't owe me a
damn thing. I want you to want more, for god's sake—more than this."
Clark pushed back, angry, and that weird trick of the light made his eyes spark
red. "I don't know what that means. You're telling me you don't want to do it?"
"I'm telling you—it's time to go home." Clark whirled away, and Lex was afraid
he'd pushed too fast too hard—like always.
"How? How am I supposed to go back home? What do I do, act like nothing's
happened? They have a kid now, they don't need me anymore. I wouldn't even want
to inflict this on them. I don't want to hurt them—"
"‘Hurt them'? You already did that—now it's time to end it. Start over, Clark."
He groaned, a low noise, so full of pain, it made Lex hurt too. "I can't do
that. Lex, just—don't interfere in something you can't understand."
"Who understands better than me? You think because what happened with the-the
twins, you can't go back? Or what you had to do on the street? Once, I was
right there, where you are. I came back. I'm here, alive. Safe. They'll forgive
you—they'll understand. I know they will, just like I know they want you."
"It's not what happened here—I mean—it's not that just that alone." Clark was
silent, for such a long time that Lex thought he'd shut down again. He took a
step towards him, and Clark held his hand up, stopping him. "No, just let me
get this together—I want you to understand. Lex, everything good that I've ever
had has died or left me, and most of the time I'm so afraid, of hurting people
who don't deserve to be…" he made a sound between a sob and a laugh. "I'd
rather stay here and be safer. Lucas doesn't let me be afraid, he makes it
stop. He takes over—I wish you would."
Lex stared, speechless. Did Clark just tell him he wanted him to—take control
of his life? God…Lex closed his eyes, breathed… "Clark. That's not an option,
and you know it. That's—"
"I know. I get it, Lex. You don't have to rub it in."
Clark walked back into the apartment, and Lex tried to organize his thoughts.
Clark had a crush, he was grateful; he was used to paying with sex. He was
confused, abused, traumatized—there were a dozen reasons why Clark did what he
did. A dozen reasons for him not to touch Clark, to confuse him even more. He
could do it—he could keep Clark safe. Right. He rolled his shoulders, smoothed
his hand over his head. 'Right, he thought. 'I'm ready for this. I've got this.
I can be a boy scout. Be a boy scout. For god's sake, be a boy scout.'
                                  [img-thing]
Lex was walking before he realized it, standing outside of Lucas' door. He
knocked. "Hey, I'm coming in."
There he was, crouched in the middle of Lucas' bed, red-faced, red eyed. He'd
pulled the comforter off the bed and wrapped it around himself. "Don't come in
here," he yelled. Lex ignored him and sat on the edge of the bed.
"Don't," Clark yelled, "Don't touch me!"
"I won't. I won't, I promise. Just let me talk to you."
"What about? There's nothing to say. I'm shit. You know it and won't touch me;
Lucas knows it and treats me like—like. A whore." Clark dropped his head. "All
I want is for someone to care—I'm going to die and no one will know, or care."
"Oh Clark, that's not true, it's very much not true. You have so many people
who care. And I know it might feel like it sometimes, but you can't die of a
broken heart." Lex winced—a broken heart? Where the hell had that come from?
Clark shook his head. "You don't understand. I killed Whitney, and I killed
Buddy—I had to leave home, so I didn't hurt my parents too or hurt the baby—"
Killed? Killed…for one brief, painfully sharp moment Lex took Clark
literally—he thought, we can move to Canada, or Mexico, somewhere overseas'
…before logic kick-started his brain. This kid was not a killer. Clark had lost
friends, but he wasn't personally responsible. "Clark… whatever happened; it
couldn't have been your fault." That, Lex was sure of. He'd find out the full
story later.
"It was my fault!" Clark cried. "If I'd been paying attention, if I hadn't
distracted Whitney—Whitney—I miss him so much. I miss him, Lex. And god, he's
been gone longer than we were together—how is that fair? How is that right?—I
should have died, too."
Lex pulled him close and held as much of Clark as he could with the bulk of the
comforter in the way. "Don't talk like that, he wouldn't want that, he wants
you to live, no one who loved you would want you to die." He babbled something,
anything just to keep up a constant stream of sound, trying to comfort Clark.
Trying to distract himself from visions—flashbacks— of his own life—crying,
wishing he was dead because he'd thought love had abandoned him. Love…Jesus.
Lex hoped whoever the fuck Whitney was, he had actually loved Clark.
After a bit Clark calmed enough to talk. "Whit took care of me; he helped me so
much…"
Lex patted Clark's back, rubbed circles through the thick material of the
comforter. "That blonde guy at the plant, the one whose stretcher you
chased—was he your boyfriend?"
"Blonde guy…you…you remember that? You remember me? I thought you didn't…you
were kind of…"
"Clark, even fucked up as I was—both times—you're hard to forget. You're really
hard to forget."
Clark gave him a wobbly smile. "I'm not anything special. You should have known
Whitney. He was amazing. He was so brave, tried so hard to be something for
everyone." Clark's eyes clouded again. "He put others before himself, always.
He was a hero, you know? He saved me more than once."
"Hey…you're a hero too, you saved me." Lex could feel that Clark was calm
again, and let him go, put some space between them.
Clark snorted. "Oh my god—saved you? That's so funny."
"Why is it funny? Because I'll have you know, it's been a favorite memory of
mine for a long time—the time an unbelievably handsome guy stopped me from
driving off a bridge, and then helped me pull my car out of a ditch. Good
memory. I don't have many good ones—or clear ones—from that time, you know."
Lex smiled at Clark, and Clark blushed.
"Yeah…well, everyone else saw it a little different. They didn't think me
waving my arms and yelling 'stop' was that big a deal. Thanks for thinking it
was, though."
"My hero." Clark smiled a little more genuinely at that, and Lex wondered if it
was a sin to imagine that smile opening to take him in, wrap around his dick—he
shook himself a little. Thinking that way…it made him feel a bit like a
pervert. "Can I get you to come out to the kitchen with me? Get something—some
tea?" A tranquilizer for myself, Lex didn't add.
Clark nodded.
"Come on, then. Let's not waste this beautiful day; we can sit in the sun and
you can tell me all about him."
***** Chapter 17 *****
 [img-thing]
The sun was setting, it was getting cooler and stars were beginning to dot the
sky…Clark was still talking about Smallville, his parents, his friends, his
Whitney. Lex listened, and wondered if Clark could ever feel anything for him
like he felt for this apparently saintly jock. Clark talked and talked, and
they still hadn't gotten to what it was that made him run, what started him on
this road. He seemed to be completely open and honest, but there was something
Clark was keeping back. Lex could understand that, respect that—one should
never give everything away, certainly not without the promise of something in
return…but if he just happened to find out what Clark wasn't saying on his own,
well...
"…then Lucas took me, and Van kept everything I had left. I managed to keep
that jacket the whole time I was on the street, even that-that—Jake— brought it
to me, even he knew how important it was to me."
"Guilt," Lex said, and Clark nodded.
"And I guess Van must have realized how important it was, too. He took it but I
kept this. All I have left of Whitney, and my—my life." Clark held up his hand,
and twirled the heavy ring on his finger, cheap and clunky looking, a cabochon
cut piece of red glass or cheap stone winked in the dying light of the sun. Lex
tried not to make a face at it—the ring was seriously ugly. The stone
looked…weird. Odd. It was too ugly a thing, he almost wanted to say evil, to be
a token of love. Lex reached out to touch it and Clark flinched back.
"Oh, I'm sorry…you can touch it. If you want." Clark reluctantly held his hand
out again, a tremor making his fingers waver. Lex carefully touched the ring,
slid a finger over the stone—it was skin temperature from the warmth of Clark's
hand…he lost control, let his finger glide over the smooth back of Clark's
hand, and Clark shuddered. "Lex…"
"Clark, I wish I could make everything better for you."
Clark's eyes seemed to flash red—he leaned over and grabbed Lex's hand, stroked
his thumb across the palm. "You can. Make me feel better." Clark smiled, and
Lex's fantasy of his mouth and what it could do came back full force with a
nearly painful jolt. The look Clark gave him was meant to be seductive…and it
was that, more…filthy, hot, sinful...Clark looked like he'd offer anything, do
anything…shit. It wasn't hard to imagine what Clark knew how to do…
Damn it. "Clark." Lex pulled his hand free, and grabbed his own knee. Hard.
Clark sighed. "All right, all right." He twisted the ring on his finger,
looking more and more lost, like all the progress he'd made was evaporating
under the weight of sorrow. His eyes locked with Lex's—Lex could see the change
take place, watched pain morph into fury. His eyes gleamed red, anger made him
look sharp and angular, ivory bone on fire inside.
"You know what? I'm fucking sick of whining and fucking sick of begging for
this all to be over, and—just sick and tired of everything. I don't want to
remember what I've lost—I don't want to remember anything!" He yanked off the
ring and threw it—it sailed up and out over the balcony railing, winked a
bright, bright red, and sailed out into space—
Clark screamed, a high pitched shriek of sound that froze Lex in place, a sound
that beat painfully against his eardrums, stopped the breath in his throat and
pierced his heart—Clark was running to the railing, hands grasping air,
reaching out—
"Fuck!" Lex scrambled after, tackled Clark hard and they both crashed to the
ground, rolling painfully into the wall. Clark flailed wildly for a second, he
screamed, "No no no! I have to have it back, I have to have it!" and just as
suddenly as he'd been gripped by fury, he collapsed.
Lex was straddling Clark; his eyes were blank—black. It scared the hell out of
him. Clark looked gone, empty and shuttered. "Clark!" Lex shook him hard, shook
him until Clark's head wobbled on his shoulders and accidentally slammed his
head into the concrete wall.
Clark yelled, "Ow!" and blinked back in like he'd never been gone.
"Clark! Jesus—"
Clark shuddered under Lex, looked up at him out of huge, stunned eyes. He
blinked a time or two, and gasped. "Oh my god—what have I done? Oh my god…Lex."
"Clark. Clark,are you all right?" Lex had his fingers twisted tightly in the
collar of Clark's shirt, afraid to let go even as he climbed off, and pulled
Clark up to sit. A little blood ran into his collar, and Lex winced. He'd
really slammed Clark into that wall hard….
"All right? Hell no. I'm not all right at all. I'm so far from all right, it's
insane." Clark stared around, murmured, "It's gotta be a nightmare. This can't
be happening."
Lex recognized Clark's look, he used to get that look, too—when he'd started to
come down after he'd been up for days in a row, fucking his way through what
felt like the city, aided with the magic of alcohol and chemicals. The good old
days. "Come inside, Clark, please. Please come with me."
Clark readily agreed, hanging onto Lex's arm, grabbing his hand, looking around
as if it was the first time he'd seen the penthouse. "This is yours and
Lucas'," he muttered, "This is Metropolis, and I've been…" he looked at Lex,
his eyes like coals in his too white face, even his lips were white. "I've been
doing horrible things. Horrible things happened to me. Lex." He grabbed Lex's
shoulder. "I need help."
"I'll help. I've been trying to. I have."
Clark nodded. "I'm ready…I keep saying that to you, don't I?" He tried to
smile, but it broke and slid away, and Lex tried to ignore the tears that fell.
                                  [img-thing]
Hurt. Hurthurt hurt. Hurt. Oh my god the hurt. The black tore a huge hole in
me, it left me…Breathe, I'm trying to breathe and my chest feels like an
elephant's standing on it and what's happening? How did I get here? How could
those—things—happen, how did I not care? I don't understand—all the pain that I
thought I left behind in Smallville was just cramped up inside me—I feel it all
again. All of it again. Whitney, and Buddy, Buddy. How did I get here? I want
my mom, I want my dad.
I want to go home.
I want Whitney. I don't want to be alone.
Blink my eyes and I'm above a huge sweep of grass, it's snowing, the flakes hit
my face and feel so good, cold—they melt instantly, run down my face like
tears. The sun is high and red, and something is flying in the sky, dipping
through pink and bronze clouds, a hawk or…something…with a long, long tail. The
name is almost there, on the tip of my tongue. I know this bird. It's—
A hand on my arm sends a warm shiver through me. The Boy is next to me, he's so
nice and warm, I lean into him and feel Home.
Arms wrap around me, and I'm flying, and he says, Kal, change is coming and
it's going to seem like the most awful thing ever, worse than this pain, worse
than losing Whit, worse than losing Lex. But when it comes don't run from it,
run into it. Take it in. You won't believe how good things will become. I'm so
sorry for the pain that is coming. There's the ghost of a kiss and I'm alone.
Hurt? It's hurting now, it can't get worse.
It hurts that I'm betraying Whit. It hurts that I made my parents suffer, it
hurts that…Bobbie, Van…so much blood. Things happened and I didn't move. I
didn't stop it. I watched and watched and I let them do terrible terrible
things…
Whitney would never have done that.
                                  [img-thing]
Warm lips pressed into the back of his neck, an incredibly sensitive spot for
Lex. His skin tried to raise non-existent hair, and a wet tongue tip tickled at
the gooseflesh raised. He reached behind him and slapped what he came in
contact with, and Lucas laughed and jumped back.
"Go the fuck away, Lucas, I need to concentrate. I'm trying to find ways to
keep the kid from breaking apart at the seams."
"I don't think anyone's got enough glue for that, Lex-Lex. Shit, he spent a lot
of time enjoying the hospitality of our ‘friends.' He's already bug fuck
crazy."
Lex looked up, his eyes cold. "Crazy? I spent a year with them. I was fourteen
years old. Did you think I was ‘bug fuck crazy' when you met me?"
Lucas' eyes went wide. He nodded. "Oh yeah. Still kind of regretting not taking
advantage of that. But…you got better. Maybe he will too. Anyway, he's just a
damn street kid. He's not worth the trouble, Lex. I can get you someone else—"
Lex shut his laptop and rolled his chair way from his desk to face Lucas. His
voice was low, soft. He said, "I got better because of you. I needed to take
care of you—I wanted to take make sure you'd be safe and you were. I don't know
if Clark wants anything badly enough to…get better. I hope to find whatever it
is. He will get better. Whatever it takes. You understand?"
Lucas knew damn well what Lex meant. He shrugged. Life was constant change; the
trick was riding it out and taking advantage of the chaos. At fourteen, he'd
pretty much been on his own, but he'd called the shots, just like now, like
always. But Lex at fourteen, given to Van and Bobbie…."Fourteen. Shit." Lucas
closed his eyes, took a deep breath. He held it for a long second before
exhaling. He opened his eyes again and smiled, wide and bright, "Lex? I wish
Dad wasn't dead."
"What?" Lex's head jerked up, he fixed Lucas with a glare—and laughed. "You
can't kill everything that pisses you off, Lucas. Some things…some
things…manage to escape." He gave Lucas back a smile as bright as his, and
Lucas shuddered. It made him feel warm…tight.
                                  [img-thing]
Lucas asked Clark one evening, when they were all sitting around pretending to
be normal—Lex pretending to read the paper, in front of the little fireplace
cheerily pretending to incinerate ceramic logs, Clark watching fucking cartoons
and pretending to be a normal sixteen year old, and himself, pretending he
didn't want to rip out of his own skin—asked Clark if he had the chance, would
he like to take revenge on the Galletti twins? Clark thought about it, glancing
over at Lex. He looked back at Lucas and nodded. "Yes. I would like them to
pay." He looked over at Lex. "They shouldn't get away with the things they do."
Lucas watched the change in Clark's face when he looked at Lex. Softer, more
open, less angular…Lucas saw too, that Clark's skin was so pale it had a green
cast to it. This kid was…unhealthy. Shit. What if he was sick, like in a
terminal way? What if it affected Lex? Lucas settled back in his chair. He was
grateful on two counts—for rubbers, and that Lex and Clark hadn't fucked yet.
Yet. He'd better talk to Lex soon…in the meantime….
"Okay, revenge—how?" Lucas whispered, "How would you do it, Clark?" Clark
turned his full attention to Lucas. He looked into his eyes, ran the tip of his
tongue around his lips. Lucas thought the boy was pretty hot, sick or
not…wondered if he could get Clark to fuck him again…Clark's lips were moving
and his tongue flashed in and out of view. It was a skilled tongue, and he
liked to use it…Lucas grinned. Poor Lex.
"…the law. Lucas, are you paying attention?"
"To what—what you said, or the way you were making me hard? I heard you—let the
law handle them. Sure. And if you want to fuck, come on."
Lex snapped the top of his newspaper down, and he stared at Lucas and if looks
could kill… Lucas smirked at Lex. "What? Hey, I'm just playing. Besides, I have
a—somebody." Lex looked very interested, too interested. Lucas winked at Clark.
"I think, it's time to take care of some business I've been putting off."
Clark glanced at Lex, looked back at Lucas, and nodded, his face closed and
hard.
                                  [img-thing]
Lucas stood in front of the Galletti apartment door and waited until Van's
security let him in to the apartment. He carried a small package, and at his
side was Clark. Clark twisted his fingers in the shimmery, nearly skin tight
material of a black dress, glancing around nervously, but his gaze always came
back to Lucas. He wore black lipstick, kohl made his eyes blaze in his face.
Lucas smiled at him, reached up and twisted a black curl around his finger.
"Shhh."
Bobbie and Van swept into the room, and Bobbie lit up at the sight of Clark.
"Mariposa! Back again…oh my sweetheart, not even Lucas might be able to take
you away from me again."
Lucas grinned and pushed Clark forward. "Go say hello, Butterfly," and Clark
walked across the room, grabbed a thick handful of Bobbie's hair and kissed
her, ferociously, hungrily, until she gasped for breath, backed her up until
they hit the wall. She was moaning into his mouth, black smeared from lip to
chin. He dropped to the carpet and shoved her skirt over her hips, buried his
face between her thighs. She gasped and held his head, pulling her fingers
through the dark curls. Clark sucked wet, hot, kisses against the silk of her
panties until they were translucent, used teeth and tongue until she was
groaning and grinding against his mouth, slid fingers up into her, twisting and
pushing into her and she spread her knees as wide as Clark's grip would let
her.
Van looked on with a drugged expression, running his fingers over the tented
front of his trousers. Lucas was behind him, licking his ear, whispering, "Who
do you want to be Van—Bobbie, or Butterfly, who would you rather be?" Lucas
pushed against the damp spot forming on the thin material, teased the tip of
Van's dick. Van reflexively pushed against the press of Lucas' thumb, eyes on
his sister, groaning quietly over the liquid sounds of sex.
"I brought you a little something to help you enjoy the show," Lucas said. "For
the body and the mind." He held up a glass vial filled with a familiar liquid.
"It's a gift. From me and Lex to you."
Van groaned and laughed, thrust against Lucas' palm. "You're a lot more fun to
do business with than your dad."
"Let's get comfortable, come on," Lucas grinned and drew Van towards the
bedroom. Bobbie followed them, Clark stayed behind, and Lucas waved at him.
"Don't be long."
 
Bobbie and Van were in the bed, arms wrapped around each other, watching Lucas
take his clothes off. He climbed on the bed with the twins, just as Clark
walked in, and Bobbie called out "Sit between us, Mari." He shook his head, and
stood behind Lucas, whispered in his ear, and Lucas put his hands behind his
back, closed his eyes and smiled. When he held his arms out, there was a long
slim blade in his hand. "Ta-dah," he said quietly. "Time to pay the bill."
Bobbie froze, eyes on Clark. "Mari—what's going on?"
Clark laughed, high pitched and on edge. He twitched the hem of the black
dress. "Fun, like Lucas said, it's time for fun." He turned and looked at
Lucas, worship plain on his face. "Lucas is so fucking smart…."
Lucas reached up, and pulled Clark down, kissed him, sucked his lip into his
mouth and bit down. Clark groaned, slid his hand under the hem of the dress and
kneaded his crotch, hissed in disappointment when Lucas pulled away.
Van rolled off the bed, hitting a button on the side of his night table "You're
going to die, you fucking asshole, I'm going to have you cut into steaks and
fed to my dogs."
"Unh-unh," Clark said, and ran a hand down the front of his black dress, held
it out, it was bright red. "No one's coming."
"Oh, good girl," Lucas said and Clark wiggled, simpered.
Bobbie gasped, "Mari, Mari, don't do this, don't—"
Lucas rolled forward and smacked her, hard. "Shut up bitch."
"Oh me! Let me do it!" Clark trilled, but Lucas shook his head.
"No, honey, first they need to know why."
"If it's because of Mariposa—" Bobbie started to say but Lucas interrupted her
with a sharp, bitter laugh.
"Shit, I don't give a flying fuck about what you did to Mariposa, he was a
whore when you got him, he was used to being treated like meat. But Lex…when I
first met Lex, he was a mess. Worse than me," Lucas jerked his chin at Clark.
"Worse than her," and Clark lifted his lip in a snarl, or maybe a smile. "You
didn't have to make Lex think you loved him. You could have torn him to pieces
without that. You kept making him hope…"
Bobbie gasped, "But we did, I did love Lexy. He was my little puppy. He slept
in my bed, I fed him myself, he was always with me…until Van sent him away."
Van snapped at her, "I didn't want the kid dying on me. You were killing him,
you bitch. His year was up, anyway. He was…pretty. It was fun at first."
Bobbie stared into nothing and smiled a little. "I love my little pets, I do…"
Lucas was leaning over the bed. "You are bug fuck crazy. How do you run a
business?"
She snapped back, her eyes sharp and shrewd again, and drew herself erect. She
said, "Business is business. Something entirely different."
"Yeah?" Lucas grinned, "Well trust me bitch, this isn't business. This is
pleasure." He pushed the knife into her chest and Van screamed. Clark put a
blade into Van a moment after. Neither wound was a killing wound and it took
them a very long time to die.
                                  [img-thing]
The bedroom was splashed with blood, as were the floors, the walls… the curtain
hems trailed streaks of blood across the beige carpet as Lucas pulled them
open. He looked out over the skyline, watched the sun begin to set. A hawk was
gliding between the towers in the distance, and Lucas wondered for a moment
what a creature of wild open spaces managed to live on in the city…behind him,
the mattress squelched wetly as Clark jumped up and down on it.
"Honey, calm down. And be something else, will you?"
Clark shimmered into Lex. "Better?"
Lucas looked up, smile bright. "Yes, actually."
                                  [img-thing]
Lex and Clark were eating dinner when Lucas came into the apartment. He looked
odd, like he was completely fucked up and trying to cover it, Clark thought. He
wrinkled his nose—the air was thick with a metallic, sickly-sweet smell. Lucas
grinned at him, and Clark felt a sick feeling of elation—his chest tightened,
his stomach flipped and a low thrum of excitement made his breath hitch. He
inhaled again. He knew the smell, you couldn't grow up on a farm and not know
the smell of blood…Lex kept eating, he seemed not to notice. Lucas smiled
wider. ‘All done,' he mouthed, and Clark felt…victorious, ecstatic—they were
dead—dead—they could never come for him, he was safe—
He crashed as hard. They were dead, Lucas killed them, and he'd done nothing to
stop it. He might as well have killed them himself…he was just like them.
Whitney would never have done that. Lex…
Lex looked up at Lucas. "Hey. Where have you been?" he smiled, and in the next
instant, frowned. "You look awfully damn pleased with yourself. What did you
do?"
"I cleaned house. Took care of some loose ends. Made sure you were okay. Just
like I told you I would because I love you. Whatever you ask for is yours, if I
can give it to you."
Lex said, "I didn't ask you to do that," and Clark noticed that Lex never asked
what it was Lucas did….
"See? You don't even have to ask for it out loud." Lucas walked out of the
room, out of the penthouse, and Lex stared at Clark. After a bit, he nodded.
"It was worth it," he whispered.
Clark shivered. He didn't know. He wasn't sure. He really didn't know if it was
or not, but he knew Lucas hadn't killed the twins for him.
                                  [img-thing]
"You know he's sick, right? He knows it; you know it, but no one's talking
about it."
Lucas was an asshole, but…Lex worried that he was right. Through the French
doors, he watched the tall, thin form aimlessly move about, wander around the
pool. It tore at his heart to see how the bones moved under Clark's skin, it
was pitiful, painful. His hipbones rose up under the milk pale skin like they
might rip through—he watched, rubbing his lower lip unaware, as Clark slowly
wandered back and forth on the patio. He moved as if he were searching for some
specific spot… he'd sit for a bit, grimace and move around again, coming to
rest in the brightest spot he could find and sink down with a sigh.
Lex stood and walked close to the wide glass doors as he watched, his hands
shoved deep in his pockets, his shoulders slightly hunched. Worry bent him. He
jerked his chin towards the window. "Look at him. I know he's eating better
now, he gets exercise…I know he sleeps well, but he's so fucking damn thin and
too damn pale. Ever since he had that break down—since he threw away that ring
it's like he just refuses to thrive."
Lucas glanced up from the couch; he turned and watched Clark too. "Well…" He
stopped and went on in a doubtful tone. "I guess it's possible he's just
feeling sorry for himself. That ring was some big deal for him. Dead boyfriend
gave it to him, I think. Still, you should get him checked out…" He shrugged.
"I know. I know that." Lex snapped. He turned from the wrenching sight and
focused on Lucas, who was really beginning to get on his nerves.
Lucas turned completely to stare out onto the patio. He was on the couch,
propped up on his knees like a kid, resting his chin on his arms, folded on the
back of the couch. "Maybe…he's dying, hunh? Looks kind of like it, don't you
think? Look at him, stalking back and forth…like he's looking for a place to do
it in. Like a stray cat—"
Lex lashed out, punched Lucas hard. He grunted and folded over, fell off the
couch. He slapped his hand over his face, pulled it away and looked in his palm
with a creak of surprise. Blood from his mouth dripped into his open hand. He
looked up at Lex with a bloody grin and the ghost of hurt in his eyes. "I think
you knocked a tooth loose, damn it…instead of wasting time being pissed off,
you should be checking him out."
Lex watched blood leak out of his brother's twisted grin and felt a shiver of
guilt—but Lucas shouldn't have said that, shouldn't have laughed... "I tried—am
trying, you bastard. I've been hounding him to go to the doctors, offered to
bring doctors here—he won't let me. He refuses everything. Just like the
fucking therapists—he's fucking driving me crazy!" Lex slammed his fist into
the leather couch back, the vibration shooting up his arm. He glanced back, and
Clark was staring at him through the glass, a little frown drawing lines around
his mouth, concern wrinkling his brow. Lex waved at him, tried pasting a little
smile on.
"You idiot," Lucas laughed. "You've got doctors out the ass—a private hospital
all your own. What the fuck are you waiting for? Or maybe you and Camille are
happy this way—you can hold him while he coughs his lungs out and whine all
heartbroken and ‘Oh fucking woe is me, the world hates me? Look how I suffer',
blah, fucken' blah—ouch, god damn it."
Lex bent over Lucas, hissed and shook his hand out; a red weal bloomed on
Lucas's cheek bone. "I'll kill you, you little fuck…"
"You dragging your ass on this is killing Clark—ah-ah, don't hit me again; you
can't take me in a fight, Lex." Lucas pushed him away and got to his feet, and
it was maddening to Lex that the bastard was still grinning. "I'm saying, for
his own good, drug him if you have to, but find out what's wrong with him. Save
him."
Lex snarled, "I knew it—I knew you wanted him too, I knew it from the
beginning—"
"Oh, fucking spare me the paranoid ravings. I don't want that pathetic little
bitch. And try to get it through your head, not everyone wants what's yours.
That was Dad's kink." Lucas yanked his shirt tails loose and wiped his mouth.
"Go on, do what I tell you to do—in the long run, it'll be right." He grabbed
his coat from the couch, and walked up to Lex. He grabbed his tie, and gave him
a bruising kiss, pushed him back. "Asshole."
He was out the door so fast Lex was still gasping from the kiss, spitting
blood. He turned and Clark, thank god, was at the far end of the patio,
swimming in the pool. Lex mulled over Lucas' words, poking his tongue into the
cut inside his mouth, where his own teeth had sliced into the tender flesh
inside his lip…Lucas was, well, pretty much crazy, but maybe he was right. Lex
had to do whatever it took to look out for Clark and live with the
consequences. What the hell, Lex thought, he was already responsible for
murder—murders. Was there any way it could get worse? And if it benefited
Clark…fuck all, sometimes the end did justify the means. Clark wasn't
cooperating in his own care, so…someone had to take control. Lucas wasn't
really that far off the mark. Besides, hadn't Clark more or less already asked
him to do that? In a way, if Lex drugged him and brought him to the lab to be
examined, well. That'd be taking care of him, just like Clark had asked, wasn't
it, in a way? So…it wouldn't be wrong and it wouldn't exactly be a
violation—intrusion. That was the word he was looking for…yes. He'd be well
within his rights, and Clark's expectations, to do that…
Clark was being absolutely unhelpful. He fought against doctors and refused the
idea of therapists like he'd been trained to—and that was odd, and not. It was
typical of abuse situations— Lex definitely recognized the wall Clark had built
between himself and the world around himself. Still…it didn't seem the type of
thing the people that Lex remembered would do. He sighed. Hell, for all he
knew, the fog of drugs and booze he'd swum in back then might be gilding the
memories he had of the parents.
Lex glanced outside again, and saw that Clark was pulling himself out of the
pool. For one moment, the sun hit him in such a way that his skin was flooded
with color—he was golden, wet curls framed his face and he was smiling up at
the sky. For the moment, Clark looked happy. Lex felt there was nothing he
wouldn't give to have Clark look like that—to look that happy all the time.
Maybe…even risk making a horrible mistake….
                                  [img-thing]
The conversation with Lucas motivated him to finally inspect the labs
personally, see what it was all about. The time was right, at any rate. He
couldn't ignore what was happening any more. He thought maybe he could take
care of Clark and then, shut down this part of LuthorCorp. That would be the
simplest, the most desirable action.
The driver left Lex outside of an average building in an office complex in Edge
City, less than an hour from LuthorCorp. Inside, the building was quite a bit
grander, flooded with light from the glass and metal frame that made up the
lobby walls. Potted trees stood about; there were granite-lined pools, koi
lazily swimming in them. Deeper into the building, a light well ran from the
top floor three stories above and went down four stories. Offices were arranged
against the three walls that opened to the light well. It looked like any
business, industrial carpet and furnishing, office art on the walls, and
everything beige and rose, stylish colors a decade or so ago. There was no way
to know what went on in the lower levels—the real lower levels. Lex shook his
head. Amazing.
The twisted man that Lucas had described came to greet him, a large smile
pulling up the corners of a lipless mouth. He introduced himself as Director
Smith and apologized for the dark glasses that covered his eyes. "The light.
It's wonderful for the plants and the fish, but not so much for my eyes. I much
prefer a dimmer light," he chuckled dryly. Lex wondered if he practiced his mad
scientist persona. The man certainly seemed to enjoy it.
Lex was asked if he cared to visit the apartment first—he was surprised to find
that Lionel had sometimes stayed in the building. Lex supposed that it
was…convenient. He declined, and asked if they could begin the tour. With
another dusty chuckle, Director Smith indicated he should follow. "We're going
below now. It's a bit…farther than you might imagine."
An elevator dropped them below the floors Lex had seen, it was explained to him
that no one could access the elevator but key holders—staff entered the complex
through a different place—another building. The elevator shrugged, and Lex was
startled.
"Sideways," the man smiled. "We're going a little sideways now."
The doors opened, and Lex breathed a sigh of relief not to be in a small
enclosed space with the unpleasant man. He followed the Director to his office.
They passed rooms that looked rather like dormitories, and every so often, a
station staffed with security and what looked like medical personnel. Even with
uniformed security, even with cameras bristling on every surface, it was bright
and cheerful. Bulletin boards announced upcoming events, and as they walked
past double sets of closed doors, he heard the sound of groups of people eating
together, the clatter of utensils, the soft buzz of conversation, the smell of
institutional meals…it was familiar, and that made it so much more…frightening.
Lex could have ended here, too. If his dad hadn't decided that he was valuable
to him—this was where he'd have lived out his life, while Lucas walked in the
sun….
"It's…cheerful. Bright." Lex tried not to make it sound like an accusation.
"Ah. Cooperation can sometime be obtained by offering an alternative to…well,
let's just say by offering a reward. Honey and vinegar, am I right?"
                                  [img-thing]
Lex disliked the twisted man intensely. There was a mocking light in his eyes
that called his father to mind. It made it difficult to concentrate and he
needed to pay attention. Director Smith sat calmly at his desk, the deep cherry
wood gleaming, the faint scent of orange in the air. The man's perfectly
manicured hands were folded, and he was so still Lex thought idly about holding
a mirror to his nostrils…
"The experiments interest you, of course," he smiled. Lex leaned forward
slightly; his brow furrowed as he tried to hear what Director Smith was
saying—the man had the annoying habit of speaking just a shade too softly, like
Dad. "I understand that at first sight, some of the facility may look
distressing but you must look beneath the surface. The subjects on the whole
have no chance of living a normal life on their own; most of them are not
equipped to interact with non-mutants. They can be, willfully or not, dangerous
to the average person. Your father provided them with a place to stay, with
safety, protected them from themselves…Mr. Luthor gave them a chance to live
some sort of life. If he received some return on that, why, there's nothing
wrong with that, is there?"
Lex didn't answer. The man's tone was reasonable, logical—as he spoke, Lex
found himself nodding, quietly agreeing. Yes, the man had a valid point… he
wanted the man to find him agreeable. He wanted the man to like him, it was
important that he liked him… "Stop that."
Director Smith looked at him with a satisfied smile. "Interesting, isn't it?
I've been injected with a serum developed with the help of one of our charges.
Just one of the many fascinating results of our research. This particular serum
has no practical application at this point, unfortunately-—its effect is very
mild, and as you see, if the object of influence resists, it's easily thwarted.
The effect on those injected is also temporary." He shrugged. "There have been
more successful results but every step, no matter how small, is a step forward.
Work continues. You see, there are many, many talents gathered here. Your
father was a man of vision. I hope his son follows in his footsteps."
The man led Lex on a tour of the rest of the facility, and he saw firsthand
what Lucas had described, what he'd seen on the security tapes. He saw people
so altered that they could never live among humans. He saw people who'd been
driven to survive anyway they could, people who wanted to destroy and people
who begged not to, but mostly he saw terrified children. He saw himself in some
of them.
They entered a final level, the security was heightened, the atmosphere was
tinged with fear and a sense of hopelessness. Lex's skin crawled, and he felt
his heart beat faster…sweat broke out on his lip, his scalp. He wanted—he
needed to be out—out now.
He looked into the thick glass window of one cell door. In the far corner of
the cell, a rather average looking girl sat cross-legged. She was completely
still, her face expressionless. Only her eyes were alive. They drilled into
him. Slowly, she smiled. Lex tore his eyes away and shivered. He licked dry
lips, glanced back into the cell. She was staring at the floor, for which Lex
felt oddly grateful, and hurried after the twisted man.
The end of the tour brought them to the research facilities—labs, exam rooms,
operating rooms, where they did actual work on the subjects. The people…kids.
Lex swallowed. Some of the exam rooms they looked in were no different than any
room he'd found himself in at four o'clock in the morning, yelling his brains
out, having his stomach pumped, having drugs shot into him…flashes of memory
hit him, again and again, fleeting, flickering images…fear, coldness,
loneliness. And pain of course, always pain.
He made arrangements for Clark to be examined there.
 
All the way back to LexCorp, he thought about what he'd seen, thought about
what his father had done, and the lost souls he'd penned together. Lex wasn't
really sure what direction to take. Letting them go didn't seem a likely
solution. In a way…Lex wasn't sure, but…it was possible…maybe it was his fault,
their pain. They were certainly his responsibility now. Lex chewed on his lip,
thinking over possibilities, changes….
The current staff was used to what his father deemed right. They needed to be
evaluated. Certain mindsets couldn't be allowed, not for the changes he had in
mind...if those changes were practical. He sighed. Lucas would have to be the
one to handle that. He tended to be razor clear about risks and profit. Lucas
would ferret out who could be trusted and who…who couldn't. And then…and then.
Lex dropped back against the soft leather of the seat back. He was piling sin
after sin on his…soul. But he had no other option. No other plan or way he
could see out of this minefield without taking steps backward, into darkness
that he'd hoped to climb out of. Lex closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples.
Sure. Sure, Lex thought. If that's what he'd really wanted, he'd have sent
Lucas away a long time ago. He'd have stopped him—not cleaned up after
him…never have kept Clark….
The light rubbing at his temples turned hard, vicious enough to leave pink
streaks from eye to ear. He swore he'd make up for his sins—starting with
Clark. He'd make it better, make Clark better.
 
Lex called his brother and left a message when he didn't pick up. "We need to
talk. About Dad's work. Come see me.
                                  [img-thing]
That evening Clark was surprised with a cup of hot chocolate, topped off with a
dollop of cream just the way he liked it, or so he told Lex.
"Great," Lex smiled, watching Clark lick cream from his lip. "I was guessing
you'd like it this way. Drink up, Clark."
"Aren't you going to have one with me?" He smiled up at Lex from the corner of
the couch he was curled in, one of those awful animated movies jumping across
the screen, bright and hyperactive enough to cause seizures….
"I—unh—have this." He held up a large tumbler full of scotch and no ice cubes,
because that would take place of the necessary liquor. "You drink yours, and
I'll drink mine."
He felt like a butcher, worse when Clark tsked and shook his head.
He was doing the right thing. The right thing—he'd say it over and over until
he believed it. He sipped at his drink, and wondered if Dad ever had
conversations like this with himself. The scotch hit the back of his throat and
he just managed to cover a cough. He didn't even have to ask if Lucas ever
questioned himself.
Lex snorted, and Clark mistook it for amusement, and wiped at his lip.His
expression was wistful when he turned his attention back to the china cup
balanced in his hand. "I used to get hot chocolate in the Beanery with my—with
Whit. The cups weren't as nice as this one," he smiled up at Lex. He bent his
head to take a sip, and Lex ground out, "Stop."
Clark looked up, surprised. "Stop?"
"Don't drink that Clark, it's got…there are sedatives in it. God, give it to
me." He pulled the cup from Clark's unresisting fingers, "I'm sorry, it was a
stupid—an unbelievably stupid idea."
"Why? Why would you want to—was it some. Some thing you were ashamed of wanting
to do?" Clark laughed bitterly, "There's nothing you could want that I haven't
already done. All you had to do was tell me what you wanted from me."
"No!" Lex sliced the air with his free hand, his face twisted in loathing,
"Hell no. not like that. I thought since you won't let me take you to a doctor,
and you know you're not well… I was trying to help, damn it."
"So, like any caring person would, you drug me unconscious… stupid idea doesn't
begin to describe it, Lex. Are you that concerned or just that angry I won't do
what you want me to?" Clark's face was red with anger; he knocked the cup from
Lex's hand. Cocoa splashed across his sweater, ran down his chest…Lex leaped
back, swiping at the hot fluid with a curse.
 
Clark was bristling; he fixed Lex with a glare that could set fire to granite.
He lunged to his feet, moved too quickly and Lex caught him when he
stumbled—nearly stumbled himself. It was like holding a bag of bones. Lex was
shocked into begging, "Please. Please, if I can help you have to let me—you
can't ask me to watch you waste away to nothing."
Lex felt Clark tense, every muscle in his body tight as twisted wire, and then
fall limp, so suddenly he almost slipped from Lex's grasp. "I'm so fucking
angry with you. But…to tell the truth, I'm more scared than I'm angry, really
scared," he whispered. "I'm afraid of dying but I'm more afraid of—what might
happen if doctors find out the truth."
"Clark, this could be anything. It could be something minor. That's why we need
to know." He shook Clark gently. "Listen; there are times I do abysmally stupid
things. But it's because…I care, very much. And in my family, that tends to be
expressed in ways that I admit, to most sane people, seem weird and—scary." Lex
felt almost faint with relief when Clark snuffled out a tiny laugh. "Idiot",
Clark murmured against his sweater, and Lex flushed. "Clark, all I really want
is to help you help yourself."
"I told you before I trust you, and crazy or not, I do. Still." He nodded at
Lex's huff of surprise. "I can't believe it either, but…." He pulled away from
Lex, scrubbed his hands across his face. He glanced at the dark splotch of
cocoa across the grey sweater, and Lex thought he was about to apologize. He
laughed a little when Clark only smirked at him. The moment faded, and he was
serious again, moved to put a little distance between them. He turned to Lex
and sighed.
"If I tell you about myself, I don't know…I have to start at the beginning. I
have to tell you about home, about Smallville, first."
Lex's eyes narrowed. Yeah. Smallville. "I spent a few hours in Smallville when
I was nine years old. Those few hours had one hell of an impact on my life."
His fingers drifted over his scalp. "This—and other changes, were a gift of the
meteorite strike." He drew himself upright, forced a smile. "Ruined forever my
appreciation of falling stars."
"So you know about that part. That was the town's biggest tragedy. No one's
ever forgotten the day." Clark laughed, a bitter bark. "There's no way we can
forget…anyway, something else happened that day. I'm not sure how to explain it
and for certain, you'll think I'm crazy—-crazier. It is crazy, I hardly
believed it myself. I mean, I never saw any evidence of it…until lately. And
maybe when I was really little, I think—"
"Clark! Just…say it."
"I'm trying!" He took a deep breath and in a rush, said, "I'm not from Earth
I'm an alien."
"Hah. All right, I apologize. Patience is not my strong suit, I'm afraid. Tell
me what you wanted...uuhn…fuck. You're not kidding. Be kidding."
"No. I am an alien. Not human. And something about being not human is killing
me, I think. Okay. Now, you can run screaming from the room."
Lex searched Clark's face, his eyes, barely aware he held his breath.
"Seriously? You really think you're an alien?" Lex exhaled, Clark looked ready
to run, skittish as a frightened colt, but he nodded. "You can't be—are you
really?" His eyes flicked from point to point on Clark's body, "I mean, why
that should be harder to believe than a boy who eats heat or-or a mind reader…"
He walked around Clark, his hand barely making contact as he traced the line of
Clark's shoulders. Stroked his cheek, eyes wide with awe, wanting to believe
him. "You don't look any different—is that engineered? How many are there of
you? I mean, all Dad—we've—found are mutants, different but still human…are you
really from another planet? What makes you so sure? Where? How?"
Clark flinched away from Lex. With every question, his eyes darkened, he backed
up away from Lex until the closed door was at his back. "Oh…oh…no. Chloe—Chloe
was right…they were being kidnapped."
"They?" Lex guessed Clark meant the mutants, and was stunned. "You knew—and you
did nothing?"
"Like what? What were we supposed to do? The adults would never listen to a
couple of kids. They're all too busy denying what happens there. I didn't even
believe it at first—by the time I was convinced it was true, I was afraid for
myself." Clark shrugged, looked ashamed before he spoke again. "Why would you
even want us to interfere? I'd think silence is what you wanted?"
"My father happily did things that I'd never consider. He was the one who
organized that madness. The kidnapping, the deaths, he was responsible for all
that. Lucas and I have been working on a way to end it for everyone involved.
Believe me Clark, when we found out what was happening to those people, we felt
the way you do."
"Really?" Clark shook his head. "What would you know about how I feel? You
don't know what it's like to think you're normal and find out you're not, that
what you've been raised to believe was all wrong. At home, I was always
worried—that Chloe would find out what I was, that whoever the mysterious
kidnappers were would find out. It was like living under a guillotine, waiting
for the blade to drop. You can't imagine what a life like that is like."
Lex stared at Clark, remembering. "No, no I can't imagine what worrying about
discovery feels like, but I don't have to. I know what it was like to be found
out. I have something to show you…"
                                  [img-thing]
At some point during the tape, Lex had given up all pretense of being detached
from what was happening on the screen. Clark held Lex's thin damp hand in his,
squeezing—afraid he was holding too tight, but Lex was still. Every so often, a
shudder shook him but he was silent.
Clark wondered how it was possible for Lex to spare anything to care for
someone else—it must take all his concentration to even pretend to be normal.
Every time the boy on the screen screamed, Lex closed his eyes. Clark decided
that Lex had had enough—and so had he, he got it, he understood. Lex was
probably the only person alive who really understood what Clark had gone
through….he reached around Lex, and killed the tape. Enough, any more would
bring all the ghosts crowding into the room.
"I remember when you came to Smallville," he said, "You and your dad. I
thought—I thought you were kind of spoiled—daddy's little boy. I thought you
must be like him. God. I'm so sorry."
Lex broke away from him, took a few shallow breaths. He wiped his face. "Um.
Sorry, I only watched it once before— Lucas and I watched it. I didn't cry
then," he muttered.
"Lucas isn't exactly the kind of person you want to cry in front of." Clark
sighed, and let Lex move. "Lex…you know my nightmare. I don't know that I want
to be seen by your people. You, I trust, but…what's to keep them from
experimenting on me or using bits of me, like they did you. How could you stop
them?"
Lex leaned back against the couch, and his expression changed, closed. His face
was a mask, and his eyes were black. "Well. What will keep that from happening
is the total and complete loyalty of the staff to me. And how that happens is
re-education. And…Lucas is in charge of that."
Clark stared at Lex's hands, folded calmly in his lap. They were still,
betrayed nothing of what Lex might be really feeling. He let his eyes drift
back up to Lex's face, his eyes. Everything was in his eyes. Clark had the
feeling Lex had no idea what his eyes revealed about him….
He was sure that what Lex was carefully not saying was that anyone who didn't
get with his new program was not going to be fired or reassigned. Lucas didn't
have a problem wiping out anyone Lex pointed him at. "So, in order to keep me
safe, you'll kill." For me. The words came out flat and expressionless, but
they hurt, him and Lex both. After a moment, Lex forced a smile—that hurt too.
"I'll protect you." Lex leapt off the couch, paced the width of the room. He
started to speak, and stopped. "Whatever it takes. And if you were
wondering—yes, I'm so fucking glad Lucas did what he did. We were owed that.
Some things…some things hurt so bad, that you never get over it."
Acid rose in Clark's throat. The butterfly on his shoulder felt like was made
of razors, burning under his skin. "Stop. I don't want to think of them or what
happened. I don't ever want to think of them again." His fingernails dragged
red streaks down his arms…he hoped that those two were burning in hell.
"Give me an answer, Clark. Tell me that it's okay for my doctors to look at
you."
It was pointless to fight anymore, and knowing had to be better than not
knowing. And when it was over, he'd ask Lex to take him home. Good news or not,
he had to go home. His heart ached, his body ached for it. He needed home. He
needed to get out of the city, get away—breathe again.
***** Chapter 18 *****
 [img-thing]
The wheels were in motion; Lucas had been more than willing to help. He'd kept
the details to himself, but in no more than a week, he'd presented Lex a list
with a flourish.
"These are the people you can trust—with his life. There'll be no danger to
him—"he jerked his chin towards Clark's closed door. "Or to you." He sat on the
edge of Lex's desk, and watched Lex skim the list, grim-faced, mouth in a tight
taut line. "This is the best way, Lex. Sweep it clean, start from scratch."
Lex nodded. He turned away, walked until the wall of windows stopped him. He
narrowed his eyes against the glare of the sun, leaned his cheek against the
warm glass. He looked out over the city.
After a bit, he asked, "Are you going to be there when Clark's examined?"
"Do you think I need to be? I can give you complete assurance we're good on
this point, but I'll be there if you want me to be."
"I think—I need you to be there. And Clark will want it, too." He turned back
to Lucas. He was gathering up the papers scattered on the desktop. He looked up
at Lex's response, snorted and rolled his eyes.
"Sure he does. Fine, I'll be there."
Lex reached out to squeeze Lucas' shoulder and he knocked his hand away.
"Jesus, don't be such a fucking bitch. I'll make sure your little girlfriend's
okay."
"I don't understand your attitude towards Clark. You were sleeping with him—you
dislike him that much?"
Lucas opened his mouth, and huffed. "He's okay. Are we through here, because
LuthorCorp doesn't completely run itself, organized or not."
Lex watched the door close on Lucas, glanced back at Clark's door. It was shut,
so that meant he didn't want to be bothered. Lex looked at his watch. It was
late—Lucas could exist on no sleep but Lex needed at least a few hours,
sleeplessness had a tendency to make him caustic, careless .He wanted to be on
point when he visited the facility in the morning. He was about to order
executions, it was only right to look the dead in the eye. No death was ever
clean and painless—he should never come to feel it was.
                                  [img-thing]
In his room behind the locked door, Clark lay curled around his pillow, covers
up to his nose. He listened to Lex and his brother talking.
He pictured Lex's face, the slight upward tilt of one side of his mouth that
was supposed to be a smile, the way his eyes were warmer when he really smiled.
The way his cheeks got kind of round when he laughed. Clark smiled to himself a
little. He bet Lex hated when that happened.
The murmur of voices shifted, and he could hear Lucas clearly. Clark uncurled a
bit. He didn't like thinking too hard about Lucas. The way he looked, lazy in a
feline kind of way. The way his smile was kind of lazy too, sexy, but like
Lex's, not really real…Lucas didn't have a real smile or if he did, Clark never
saw it, and he was glad of that.
Even coming, Lucas was never fully…there. Clark had a feeling that it was only
loving Lex that kept Lucas real. Clark shifted under the blankets; the warmth
he'd been floating in was a little less now. What he heard from Lucas made him
uneasy, always did. It was too much the way Bobbie and Van were, only Lex was
like neither of them, so Lucas suffered….
Clark shuddered, quickly turned to his side again and let the blankets cover
him completely.
Everything Lucas felt was in his voice. He wondered that Lex couldn't hear it
too. Was he willfully blocking it out? Clark didn't think that was likely, he
must really be unaware of what went on in Lucas' head. Clark could barely
understand that—it was so obvious. Just like it was obvious that Lex was a
walking wound. Lex was so damn relentless, nearly masochistic, when it came to
the truth. Expecting it, needing it. After seeing that tape, Clark could
understand the drive in Lex to need to know what was reality, what was truth.
From everyone, including himself.
He had his own odd moral code, Clark thought. He could imagine Lex and Dad in
the same room, talking about what was right and honorable. He thought of his
dad with a pang…his dad's head would probably explode five minutes into the
conversation. He'd probably never understand Lex, what he'd done or why. It
wasn't pretty but Lex didn't hide from it. And now, what he was about to
do…Clark sighed.
Lex was already carrying that guilt, and that was sort of a good thing, he
thought. It meant Lex was human and not another Lucas, stone cold killer with a
heart of…brass, bronze? Something shiny not made of gold, Clark smiled. Lex was
doing what he had to, to protect people he didn't know—didn't ask to
protect—but he stepped up and shouldered the responsibility, and he didn't hide
from himself. In a way, that was like Clark's dad…and his mom, too.
Clark didn't know what he would do in Lex's place. He was pretty sure—he
knew—he couldn't bring himself to kill anyone, no matter how much it might seem
they deserved it. He wasn't human; he didn't have the right to make that call.
But the thought that Lex could, and did…was…well, not okay with him, but not
the end of everything. Clark was startled. It really was…bearable. Hunh….
He pushed up on his elbows, kicking the covers out of place. The red jacket
he'd bought on his first solo shopping trip was rolled in a ball under his
head. He slipped it on, and sank to his knees by the side of the bed, reached
under it and pulled out the backpack he'd also bought that day. He held it on
his lap, opened it.
Clothes, money carefully hoarded and tucked into a seam in the bag, the brand
new sneakers he'd bought his first day out, a map, all tucked into the pack,
all brand new. He was ready to go—where ever. Whenever. He'd been ready to run
again since the first day. It would feel wonderful not to feel that way. He
closed his eyes, and thought. Tomorrow was either the beginning of…waiting to
die, or starting to live again. Tomorrow was coming and he wasn't ready…he
zipped the pack shut and shoved it back under the bed.
He heard the front door shut. He heard nothing for long moment, and then he
heard Lex's door shut. He stood, the red jacket in his hand. He took the key to
his door out of the pocket, rolled the jacket up and pushed it under his
pillow.
                                  [img-thing]
Clark opened the bedroom door, quietly as he could. He snuck across the room,
holding his breath. When he stood at Lex's bedside, he silently, slowly
released the air he'd held. Watched him. It felt…good to watch him. It felt
right, like he was supposed to be standing over Lex, looking out for him.
Spread out on the bed was a completely different person than the one he knew in
the daytime. Sort of softer, rounded…his cheeks, his chin. His mouth was soft,
the scar on his lip was less defined, smoother, lips fuller than they looked
when he was awake. Lex always held them so tight. Clark drew his gaze downward,
to Lex's hands, fisted in the sheet across his chest. That tension that was
gone from his face was still there, knuckles paler against pale skin.
Lex made a small sleep soaked sound and his eyes shifted under closed lids. His
ginger lashes rose and fell, his tongue peeked out and hid. Clark thought, 'I
could love this person. I could be in love with him….' He made a decision, and
carefully slipped into bed. At the movement on the mattress, Lex grunted, and
rolled away, onto his side. He drew his knees up and clasped his arms in front
of him—poised to protect himself even in sleep. The movement saddened Clark; he
knew what it felt like to run even in sleep.
Clark slipped under the sheets, kept himself away from Lex. He closed his eyes
and inhaled the smell of him—soap, a faint scent of vanilla. He scooted closer,
not close enough to touch…he leaned his head the inch or two closer that let
him smell Lex, the real smell of Lex, a little dark, a little sweet. A smell
that made him think of turned over fields waiting to be planted. Tears burned
suddenly under his closed eyelids, and without wanting to, his mouth was
pressed against Lex's back. Home. He smelled a little bit like home. Like sun
and fields, and grass. He eased closer, fighting to keep tears back. He needed
to touch Lex so bad; it was like a knife under his heart, like being pulled to
bits. Even closed lids couldn't keep the tears in—they dripped down his cheek
and he felt ashamed, but he couldn't move back. He wanted to leave, but he
couldn't stand the thought of not being close to—to home.
Lex grumbled and shifted away, and then back. Shoved back, with a snort and a
moan, he pushed right up against Clark and sighed. "Warm…"His breath evened out
again, and Clark was stunned, frozen. Lex was plastered against him, his hips
against his, legs locked over Clark's knees…Clark opened his eyes and trapped
tears flooded Lex's skin.
"Stop it," Lex muttered, "Stop licking me."
Clark gasped. Lex could read minds? That was one of the gifts he spoke of?
Because Clark was just working up the nerve to touch his tongue to the skin his
mouth was pressed against…he hummed low in his throat and his dick was getting
interested in what was going on. A nudge, just a nudge against Lex's backside,
a signal from his groin to his brain that Lex was hot and firm and pressing
back, and probably tight like a glove…
"Lucas—what the fuck—"
Like magic, the words broke the spell, and Clark jerked away, Lex whirled
around. "Oh god Clark—"He looked around wildly, "—this is my room, isn't it?"
Clark nodded back, eyes wide, for a moment, frightened back into last year, to
way before Whitney, everything…guilt flooded in on the heels of fright.
"Clark what in the world is happening? Why aren't you asleep, you know that
tomorrow…oh." He turned to face Clark and smiled. "Oh..."
Clark inhaled, moved forward a bit and Lex said, "Oh!" And flushed red.
Clark was fascinated by the sight of Lex, red-faced and stammering. He reached
out and touched Lex's silk covered groin and Lex shivered, and almost closed
his eyes, tilted his hips up—and scooted away from Clark's touch.
"Oh Clark, no. Not yet."
"Not yet? Oh no, not this time. I'm not stopping," he growled, "it's right this
time." He reached out and Lex yelped when Clark's hands closed over his wrists,
Clark felt the bones shift and grind together. He dropped them quickly, and
cried out, "I'm sorry!"
Lex hissed, flexed his wrists. "I had no idea you were that strong, that was a
little…surprising," he said, and Clark got a flash of memory—intense with
scent, color, sound—he was inside the memory, reliving time—his mom crying and
wiping his hands hard, frantically. His fingers so small and bright red. He was
crying—
"Clark…Clark, what's wrong?" Lex sat up and leaned over Clark, patting him.
"I'm going crazy," he said, staring into Lex's eyes. He felt terrible—for Lex.
"I think, on top of everything else, I'm going crazy. I'm sorry about that."
"Going crazy, hunh?"Lex bit his lip. He held his arms out for Clark to slide
in. "Tell you what; I'll slow down, so that you can catch up with me."
Clark snuffled against him gratefully. He threw an arm around Lex's waist, and
slid the tips of his fingers under the waistband of the silk boxers.
"Ah-ah. No sex. Just sleep."
Clark nodded his head, exhaustion suddenly making even that an extreme effort,
"Okay, sleep," he echoed. And that was all he wanted, to wrap around Lex and
sleep for a million years.
Before he drifted off, he felt Lex's hand trace swooping curves over his back,
and heard him whisper, "The sex comes later."
He fell into sleep in the middle of a laugh....
                                  [img-thing]
"Of course, when Director Smi—I—I mean when the new Director told us you were
coming, we immediately prepared for you—the lab is at your disposal, sir. We've
also made a new room ready. Naturally we're very excited. We doubted any new
subjects would be arriving since your father passed…"
"Oh, there'll be no need for a 'room.’" Lex smiled, and took note of the
doctor's name. He'd pass it on to Lucas, if need be. "This is a personal favor
to me. This person isn't a subject; he's a friend of mine."
"Oh! I'm sorry; it seems we made a mistake! It's just that…well. The results of
our exams have been interesting. The subject—your friend—seems to have an
entirely different reaction to the meteorite than what we've seen so far. Most
of the subjects don't retain the meteorite in their systems, even if it's been
purposely introduced, say in the form of…tattoo ink, as one of our subjects
here has used. Your friend's case is very different; it's as if he's infected
with the meteorite. It's under large areas of his skin—I can show you."
She asked Lex to follow her to her desk, and turned the computer to face him. A
series of scans were on the screen. "You see these white areas," and the doctor
pointed at a line of white specks around Clark's ear. "Encapsulated meteor
fragments—it's the body trying to protect itself. And this large area here is
the ink used to create the tattoo. Really fascinating, the way his body seems
to hold on to it—"At Lex's look she hurried on. "We'll remove what we can,
starting with the larger fragments, and then we observe him, look for a change.
He definitely seems to be suffering ill effects from the meteorite. It's been
in his system a long time, there are some very odd changes here…"
Lex studied the scans thoughtfully. "If these fragments aren't removed, will he
continue to decline? Are you certain that it's only these fragments affecting
him, or is there some other cause?" Now that he was here, now that it was
happening, he felt a strange reluctance, an odd feeling of foreboding. He
growled at himself and fixed the doctor with an impatient glare.
"Oh, he'll certainly decline—"She stopped, continued and this time her tone was
slightly less colored by fascination. "I—I mean," she stammered. "Perhaps
months, maybe longer—hard to tell. For all we know, it could be weeks…"She
winced, as if suddenly hearing her own words. "But he'll come through this
fine. When he heals, we'd like to examine him further, if he—you—you—agree,"
the doctor said quickly, aware of Lex's ice cold stare.
"Let's do it. I'll wait."
"Um, certainly, certainly…you mean…in the Luthor apartment? We can send word
when we're finished."
"No." Lex smiled, and pointed at the doors. "I mean right here. Watching.
Waiting for good results."
She grinned sickly. "Oh. That's—that's—great." No doubt, she knew about the
sudden disappearances of a lot of the staff, and wisely, was determined not to
be one of the disappeared…
                                  [img-thing]
The clippers buzzed, sheared hair away, left Clark feeling a little chilled and
light headed. The nurse left and he stared at the mirror above the small sink
in the corner of the exam room. He looked…sick. He ran his hand over the crest
of spiky hair that was left, and grimaced at Lex behind him. Lex ran his
fingers too through Clark's hair, a quick slide and a little tug. "It grows
fast, don't worry," he said softly, whether to himself or Clark, it wasn't
clear.
Clark leaned back against Lex; let his weight rest against him for a brief and
pleasant moment. "I'm not worrying about that."
The tips of Lex's ears flushed pale pink, and he stepped back. "Everything's
going to be fine, you know."
Clark nodded. His mouth was dry, and his heart was beating hard, but he tried
to look nonchalant. He didn't want to give Lex more cause to worry. "Sure, I'm
ready for it. It's not that big a deal, right?"
"Well, the fragments aren't deep. It won't take long." Lex dropped his hand
onto Clark's neck and kneaded the tension-stiff muscle gently. "You'll close
your eyes and when you open them again, I'll be right beside you."
Clark smiled, and leaned into Lex's hand. A soft cough at the doorway made him
glance back. Lucas was leaning in the doorframe of his room—he blew Clark a
kiss, and winked. Now, Clark felt safe. Lucas would make sure everything was
what it was supposed to be. He'd never let Lex down. Clark nodded, and Lucas
was gone.
"All that matters is you get better. And you will."
Clark hoped he was right.
                                  [img-thing]
The nurse poked a needle into the crook of his elbow. "This will relax you."
He thought that was highly unlikely. He'd been nervous all day, thinking about
the past, worrying about the future. Worrying about Lex. Worrying about his mom
and dad. It felt wrong doing this without them knowing, but he couldn't imagine
putting them through even more pain than he already had. If he died without
them knowing, it could only be better for them. If this worked, and he had a
chance—then he'd take one more chance, and go back home.
Clark sighed, and closed his heavy eyes, a wave of warmth and sadness so deep
it felt almost comfortable swept him. They'd be so angry to find out he was
breaking one of the big rules, the important one—he'd broken so, so many rules.
Oh, rules...breaking rules…were there any left to break? What hadn't he done,
he'd done…all the rules unraveled…broke and broke and broke….
Clark. Kal-El. Clark! Kal…
The hall tips back and forth and makes it hard to walk, I feel like I'm at sea.
The world is rolling and tipping, but I keep walking because at the end of the
hall is a bright light, and I'm supposed to go into that light…and that makes
me giggle. Go into the light…it's pretty funny. I try to walk faster, push
myself along because I feel something at my back, just an impression of
something big and dark, painful and deep. I'm not sure if the feeling is
outside or inside me… I start to run a little and I hear my name again,
someone's calling me. Up ahead, I can see someone in the light—Whitney? My
heart jumps and shivers inside, I run a little faster…closer…Whitney.
Clark!
Oh god…Whitney.
Hurry up, you need to hurry. He's jogging next to me, smiling. It's been a
while, babe…
I look at him and laugh, well, yeah, it has been.
Shut up he grins, and speeds up, come on slow-poke…he runs and I reach out for
his hand but don't ever quite make it.
Okay, Kent this is it, don't blow it, he says and I'm a little hurt. Whitney,
are you mad at me? Why are you in such a hurry?
No no, I just want you to be the best you can be. It's your job now, to be the
best. Take all the help you can. I'll see you. Love you.
 
He's gone.
 
—the disappointment spears right through me, but it's eclipsed by terrible
pain—I yell, my head hurts so bad. The voice calls my name again, and I'm back
on the red plain and far in the distance I see the city, glowing gold and red
and green…It's night, the sky is a deep velvet navy and stars are everywhere, a
moon hangs low and orange in the sky…two moons…and it's him next to me. The
Boy. The relief is so intense it hurts…my boy, he'd holding out his arms. I'm
finally safe.
It takes forever to get close—the air fights me, the ground pulls at my feet
but I'm getting near, and he's smiling, encouraging me, and suddenly I know—
if I touch him, I'll never see him again—we'll never go flying again, we'll
never walk under the red sun again, he'll never kiss me again—
I can't, I just can't give him up.
You protected me all those years, how can you abandon me?
He shakes his head. I won't. He gives me a picture and in the picture a man is
walking through a field. It looks like hay; it's our land the man is walking
on. He's wearing a purple shirt that glows like amethyst in the sun…
You won't be alone. Kal-El, I'll always be right here he says and touches me
and his hand goes through
…right…through…the …center of my chest….
 
Clark stared up at an unfamiliar ceiling, bright white light made his vision
blurry. He felt dizzy, odd. Where was he? No, the question was why was he
alone? Lex said….
Then the pain came.
He felt like he was being flayed, washed in acid, scrubbed with salt...
It centered on his eyes, his ears, skin lungs brain heart—he could hear himself
screaming and didn't care—people screamed, in the room, outside of the room,
the building, he was in the middle of the city and heard everything and he
heard the threads that made up the fabric of his sheets slide and scrape
against each other like shrieking violins. His head felt like it was wrapped in
a sheet of flame—he blinked and a fireball flashed through the room, turning
every flammable thing to ash, black heavy smoke filled the room and he heard
fans whine and grind, struggle to clear it—was this really happening or was
this a hallucination? Was there really fire? Was there really sound? He heard
Lex scream, maybe he heard Lex scream—
His eyes slammed shut, his hands flew up to cover his ears and all was silent
and dark—"Lex!"
                                  [img-thing]
When he opened his eyes again, he felt no pain, nothing. He was on his knees,
the room was black and shattered, Lex weaved in the doorway, his face and scalp
tomato red. He was sunburned, gasping, staring horrified at Clark. Clark felt
like he was suspended in time—no movement, no sound—
With a weird internal snap time flowed on, alarms were sounding, piercing
shrieks of warning. "What the fuck happened? Where is—Where's the staff?"
Multiple voices beat at him, shock, anger, fear vibrated in the air, men with
drawn guns and in environmental suits plunged into the doorway, reaching for
Clark, aiming for him—
And Lucas was there, between Lex and the men—their guns were centered on them,
taut nerves, and fear making the situation dangerous. Clark was afraid for
Lex's life, his own…what if the men started shooting, what if Lucas made them
angry? He shivered. What if something he did made them angry enough to hurt
Lex?
There was a demand for conformation of ID and threats from security, there was
a heated argument….somehow, miraculously instead of worsening it, Lucas managed
to take control of the situation. "I'd suggest you stand down," he said, and
pointed at Lex. "Before you shoot your boss."
Clark watched in awe as Lex stopped yelling, grew taller and fiercer than
anyone else in the room. He moved to stand shoulder to shoulder with Lucas. He
snarled, "If you don't know who we are, you're about to learn. Lucas?"
Lucas laughed lightly and asked, "Who wants the first lesson?"
                                  [img-thing]
Clark watched Lex get rid of security, and direct a team in environmental suits
in cleaning what little was left in the burned out shell of the operating
room…he could clearly hear how much pain Lex was in and suddenly his own pain
rose off the scales. He was sweating blood, he knew he was—he had to be—
He fell forward, and Lex was grabbing him and he tried to pull away, Lex's
touch was making his skin scream. Blood, and a greenish oily substance, ran
down his back, leaked from his side…the butterfly was melting off of him and it
hurt. Something warm and golden came out of the fog the pain wrapped him in, it
was sweet and thick like honey and slowly the pain flowed out of him and away.
He closed his eyes and slept, he was safe.
                                  [img-thing]
Lex was stunned—he felt sixteen again, like his brain was being fried again.
He felt like he'd been dropped into an impossible nightmare.
He'd gotten notice that they removed the flecks of meteorite under Clark's
skin, and he was about to be taken to recovery. The moment he'd disconnected,
what sounded like an explosion and screaming rang in the halls, picked up by
the inmates, worsened until it became deafening. He ran toward the operating
room, almost bowling over Lucas. No one came, there was no alarm, he could
smell the stink of things burning—-he threw open the doors and hot air exploded
outward.
Clark stood in the center of a ball of flame. Lex blinked—and the flame was
gone. Along with nearly everything in the room…the concrete block was black and
cracked, each piece of machinery was a slumped melted shape barely revealing
its purpose and ash dropped everywhere like black snow on the fused and cracked
floor tile…staff rushed in, ready to protect the place, to destroy the thing in
the center of the room, this—stranger—crying, and calling Lex's name.
With Lucas' help, he managed to get control over the situation, and between the
two of them, dragged a traumatized Clark to the closest shower. He was naked,
ash on his skin the only thing left of the hospital gown he'd been in, he was
red and blistered over his whole body, and a poisonous looking green slime
covered his back and shoulders. The veins there appeared black and Lex watched
in horror as they pulsated, throbbed like they were trying to rip out from
under Clark's skin.
He sent Lucas out to keep an eye on the staff, and pushed and pulled Clark
under the warm spray. Kicked his shoes off and stepped in after him without
thinking about the rest of his clothing. He scrubbed at the sticky green fluid,
washed him thoroughly but as quickly as he could, from head to toe. As it
flowed away from Clark's skin and whirled down the drain, the black veins
pulsing on his skin returned to normal and his skin lost its boiled look, his
gasps softened and sounded more like exhaustion instead of pain. Lex let him
slump to the floor under the shower, washed the last bit of ash and gritty
cinders from his hair…the butterfly was gone, nothing remained. Lex stared
open-mouthed at Clark's perfect skin, so clean, so smooth…gold instead of red,
no sign of the waxy white blisters that had covered him moments ago. Lex knelt
and stared into the sleeping boy's face. The deep shadows under his eyes were
nearly gone, small scars and pock marks were Bobbie had cut him, or stabbed him
with the needles were gone…scars around his wrists were gone…all the marks that
Lex had also carried home as gifts from the twins and that had taken months to
fade were gone as if they never were.
Clark slept, heedless of the rushing water. His head was tilted against the
tiles, water beaded on the short spikey strands. His hands were turned up in
his lap, and water filled the cupped palms.
Now that the adrenalin drained away, Lex was aware of his own pain, he felt raw
and burned from head to toe. He touched his face and hissed—it stung. He held
out his hands and saw that they were as red as Clark had been and blistered as
well, and he sighed. He'd heal soon enough but until he did, pain was going to
be a close companion. His clothes were a loss—his cuffs were charred, and he
still smelled like smoke, and wet wool. He suddenly realized his clothes were
soggy and heavy, clinging painfully to his tender skin like wet burlap.
A change in the sound of the falling water drew his eyes back to Clark. He
was…beautiful. Clark was amazing…he moaned quietly and Lex started guiltily, he
didn't want Clark to wake and find himself being stared at, especially since
Clark was slightly erect. Lex swallowed but didn't look away…Clark shifted and
something else managed to catch Lex's eye. A black butterfly wrapped its wings
around the base of his semi-hard dick…Lex bit his thumb. Fucking hell, he
didn't have to be a mind reader to know this was the real reason Lucas called
him Butterfly. No wonder Clark had hated it so much. Unlike the one on his
shoulder, this one didn't look like it was going anywhere. Lex reached out
without thinking and touched it, startled back when Clark moaned at the touch,
stiffened more. He blushed deeply, ashamed that he'd taken even the smallest
bit of advantage….
Lucas smirked unpleasantly when he came back to help Lex move Clark, but one
look from Lex kept him from commenting.
"Just—just help me move him."
Lucas shrugged, but wisely kept silent.
                                  [img-thing]
Clark woke up, froze against the sheets—he wasn't in his room. Memory flooded
back, but he was unsure if he was mixing dream with reality. He had a brief
echo of the pain he'd experienced and that was rapidly fading. Confused, he sat
up and threw his feet over the side of the bed, and realized—he was floating
above the bed—an inch or two, but floating. In. The. Air. He yelled and grabbed
for the mattress, and ripped right through. He stared stupidly at the shredded
strips of ticking and foam clutched in his hands…what the fuck happened?
What had Lex done to him?
He felt an odd sensation behind his eyes; a red fog crept in around the corners
of his sight, fear turned to fury.
Enough—he was sick and damn tired of stuff being done to him all the time, and
him just taking it and taking it—fuck that. It was past time he stopped letting
everyone push him around—he was about to start pushing back…
Clark flung open the bedroom door and barely noticed the crack as the door knob
rammed into the wall—he stepped into a huge open room, an unfamiliar room—he
was staggered by a flood of light, and colors so bright they hurt his eyes. He
blinked, and the light became a wall of windows. Sunlight blazed, filling him
with warmth, caressing his skin…his anger melted away as an incredible sense of
well-being swelled inside of him, so good it was like coasting after orgasm…he
shook himself, remembered that he'd come looking for Lex.
Where the heck was Lex? He glanced around, frowning slightly, and shouted in
panic as the world thinned to nothing. A skeleton came jogging toward him, it's
arms whipping up and down like a cartoon. He rubbed his eyes frantically and
the dancing skeleton became Lex running towards him. He still saw through the
world, like…a blueprint, like a maze of glowing lines and colors and only Lex
made sense….
"Oh!" Clark stared at Lex, whose bones were now clothed in muscle and skin,
lots of smooth, gleaming skin and built really, really…and his dick was…and
really, no hair anywhere? Clark's eyes were burning, and Lex yelled, "Shut
them! Shut your eyes!" And Clark did without thinking.
Immediately the pain vanished, the burning sensation cooled. "Lex? Lex—what the
hell happened to me?"
"Clark. You became…what you were meant to be. Part of that is the ability to
create fire with your eyes—" He sounded overcome with awe. "It's incredible."
"Um…Lex, this will sound stupid but, are you naked?"
"What? No. Are you…are you okay?"
"I think so…" A memory floated up from the odd blankness that surrounded his
time in the exam room. "Oh Lex—I think—I think I hurt them. Did I? Hurt
anyone?"
                                  [img-thing]
Clark looked like he was about to shatter in a million pieces, and Lex grabbed
him, held him in place. Clark was staring at him, into his eyes, waited for the
words like he was on the edge of a cliff. Lex took a deep breath, and lied.
"No, no one was hurt. You were in recovery; no one was in with you. I gave
orders that I was the only one to be with you when you woke."
The wire tight tension under his hands eased, Clark exhaled in grateful relief
and Lex was just as grateful that Clark chose to believe without question.
"What about you, Clark? How do you feel?"
"Lex…it's like someone stole the world while I was asleep and replaced it with
this one. Everything is so different. I feel—I can't describe how I feel. It's
just…good."
Lex saw that good didn't begin to describe it, not from the awestruck
expression on Clark's face. Maybe no word on earth existed to describe it.
Clark glowed; he looked like…an angel. Unearthly. "You're not afraid of this
new world, are you?"
He shook his head. "I'm not afraid. Yesterday, I was sure I was dying and now,
I have this brand new life—wow. Was I wrong all along? Or did the meteorites
make me that way?"
Lex shrugged. "Maybe. Yes. The doctors seemed sure." And just about anyone who
was most familiar with Clark's case was…gone, along with a lot of information.
They were on their own now.
"I need to go home. Maybe my parents will know what to do, Lex. Can you take me
home?"
Lex wanted to argue that he was uniquely set up to help Clark, to discover what
it was that made him different than—anything else on the planet, that he had
the equipment and the means and maybe Clark shouldn't be quite so eager to run
away—
Lex bit the inside of his cheek, hard, as every muscle locked while he rode out
a wave of nausea. "Clark, you're right. We'll leave, as soon as it's possible.
I promise."
                                  [img-thing]
Clark broke his bed. Broke the shower, broke the sink. Put his hand through the
wall. Walls. He ripped doors off their hinges, cracked glass after glass,
rendered plates and cups to dust, squeezed flatware to lumps of metal. There
were scorch marks all through the suite…carpet was replaced, curtains,
furniture….
Lex and Clark had words one evening and the next day a crew came in to redo the
apartment….
There were times Clark couldn't move, couldn't breathe, crushed under the
weight of the life of the city, too much to hear, too much to see. Some days
the most he could manage was to lay his head in Lex's lap, and wait for it to
pass. Every step of the way, Lex held his hand, he cajoled, he cursed, he
coaxed Clark out of himself nearly every day…he used the labs, the knowledge
gained from prior experiments. He talked to the inmates, he learned what he
needed to help Clark and in the process, learned a lot about what it was to be
different—truly different. Somewhere along the way, his vague desire to help
had crystallized into a decision to provide a real life for the mutants. There
was a way, he would make it reality….and in the meantime, he devoted himself to
helping the person he'd come to love more than anything else in the world.
                                  [img-thing]
"Clark, forget it. You're not even moving back to the penthouse, let alone
Smallville, until you get some control over your power. You want to at least be
able to avoid a horrible accident if someone says or does something that upsets
you, can't you get that?"
"Lex," Clark yelled, eyes tightly closed, "I have control! I do. "
"Oh really? Open your eyes than, Clark. Show me your control. Or open the damn
window now, go ahead." Lex yelled back, feeling Clark's frustration nearly as
deeply as Clark did.
Clark snapped out a curse, but didn't move.
"Look at you. Standing here with your eyes screwed shut, hands in your
pockets—fucking afraid to move. That's not control, that's—terror. That's being
a prisoner in your own body."
Clark growled, and for a moment, Lex thought he'd lost him, that he'd break,
run away…and Lex was terrified that if Clark ran, if he hurt anyone, Clark
would finally be lost forever…
"Okay! Okay, I hear you. All right."
"Thank you Clark."Lex's hands shook with reaction, he pushed them into his
pockets and forced as normal smile as he could. "I appreciate it."
"Sure, you're generous when your enemy is defeated. "But he was smiling, and
opened his eyes.
Lex smiled back, "Never my enemy, Clark, never."
                                  [img-thing]
"I'm back."
I'm in here."
Lex nodded. Of course. He walked around the wall that separated the foyer from
the living area. He still had his coat over his arm and briefcase in his hand.
He dropped the coat over the back of the couch, and Clark looked up from the
corner he'd staked out as his. The afternoon light streaming in through the
widows provided a puddle of sunlight for him to stretch out in, and he looked
content, and every day, healthier.
Lex looked at him critically. "Did you eat today?"
Clark sighed, "Yes, I ate a highly nutritious lunch, thank you very much." He
grinned. "And pie, your cook makes a pretty good cherry pie."
Lex wandered over to his desk and tossed his briefcase on it, and went through
the mail on his desk. "Pie is fine, as long as you didn't have it for lunch."
Clark coughed and studied his book intently.
"You didn't just have pie for lunch, did you? You wouldn't lie to me, would
you?" He shook his head when Clark didn't answer. "On the plus side, I see you
were busy today."
There were textbooks in a stack on the floor in front of Clark. He grinned.
"Wait until you see my test results. My instructor says I've got a feel for
history. He says it's a pleasure to work with me—and stop that," he said, at
Lex's look. "He means teach and nothing else—geez, Lex, he's a hundred years
old."
"Age has nothing to do with the ability to appreciate beauty Clark. Or, the
desire to touch it." Clark was blushing when Lex looked at him. He set the mail
down, picked a book from the shelf and threw it at Clark's head. It missed him
and rebounded from the far wall. It missed him because Clark wasn't on the
couch, he was behind it, looking shame-faced, and Lex never saw him move.
"Damn it Clark, don't dodge! How many times have we worked on that?" He threw
another book and Clark remained in place, caught it as it slammed into his
chest. He grunted and staggered back under imagined weight. He tossed it back,
and Lex was able to catch it without difficulty. He flexed his fingers and
smiled.
"Not even a slight sting. Better. In fact, terrific." Lex had a basket full of
exploded rubber balls that he dumped in Clark's lap whenever he got frustrated
with his progress.
Lex thought Clark had learned to adjust for his new strength very quickly. So
much so that he was certain Clark had been taught this before…which opened
further questions into Clark's background. Clark had been as forthcoming as he
could, everything he knew was open to Lex, and that only told him that parts of
Clark's past were as clouded to him as Lex's own had been.
Lex wanted to find out what he didn't know…
                                  [img-thing]
"Lex, seriously—you're kidding, right?" Lucas looked through the fridge,
searching for something known only to him. He resurfaced with a beer, and Lex
watched him wander around the kitchen, paw through the contents of his cabinets
until he rooted out a bag of chips. He came to rest opposite Lex, leaned a hip
against the counter as he emptied the bottle. "You've been living with him,
working with him all this time, he's not even sick anymore, and you still
haven't fucked him?"
Lex snatched the bottle out of the air when Lucas threw it, and slapped it down
on the counter behind him. He didn't get paid to recycle; he had people to do
that. He growled, "No. And really—none of your business."
"What are you waiting for? He needs it. And don't give me shit about how he
doesn't know what he wants blah blah psycho fucken' babble blah. When you do
finally stop acting like a priest, let him fuck you. Shit, you won't be able to
walk after but it's so fucking worth it," Lucas laughed and tossed the empty
bag of chips and Lex caught it, threw it behind him. Chip dust scattered across
the counter, and Lex knocked the bag into the sink.
"You let him fuck you? And damn it, did I ask for this conversation?"
Lucas ignored Lex and went on. "He's like… he's perfect. His cock is
perfect…when he bulks up some, he's going to be flawless…." he shook himself.
"Anyway, he's damn good at it." He lit a cigarette. "Those fucking dead people
did at least one thing right in their miserable lives…"
"Lucas!"
"Hey, they did teach him to fuck—oh. You feel guilt about them? What the hell
for? Do you think for one fucking minute they'd feel guilty for making you
dead? Grow up. The world is like that." Lucas ground the cigarette out, and
tossed the butt in the sink. "I have to go. I've got to meet someone, clean up
one last mess, and tah, it's over. Nothing but go from now on, Lex-Lex. Onward
and upward, and all good works from this point out, right?"
Lex sighed, and closed his eyes. He felt Lucas standing too close, and then
felt a knee on each side of his own. He had to strain to catch what Lucas was
saying, he spoke so quietly. "Hey…hey, Lex. Could you…" They were touching from
knee to shoulder, when Lucas spoke again, there was an odd note in his voice.
"Could you please just once, kiss me?"
"What?" Lex frowned and pushed his hand flat against Lucas's chest, putting
space between them, but kept his eyes closed.
"You kiss me—pretend you want to—one time, that's all, and I promise, I'll
never, ever bother you again." He leaned closer. "All those times I messed with
you, I was never kidding."
Lex opened his eyes, and looked at Lucas. He stared at him a moment, and then,
barely, he nodded, yes, raised his head, and let him….Lucas pressed lips to
Lex's, moaned against his mouth. Lex was startled into opening his mouth…for
the barest second, they breathed together, breathed the same air.
"Okay." Lucas stepped back. Stroked Lex's cheek, and smiled. He backed away,
and the shy smile changed back to something Lex understood from Lucas. "Hey,
I'll call you…"
He was gone, Lex heard the front door close, and after a minute or two, Clark
wandered into the kitchen. "Hey, do we have to make our own lunch? Lex? Lex,
are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I'm good. Just…tired. Let's go out to eat, love."
                                  [img-thing]
Lucas strolled into the secure room, hands in his pocket and a slightly bored
look on his face. He closed the door behind him and locked it, leaned against
it.
She was sprawled on the bed, wearing a silky bit of fabric that barely covered
her. Lucas frowned, and jerked his chin at the closet, "You knew I was coming.
Why aren't you dressed? Take that stuff off."
She skimmed off the negligee, stepped out of the puddle of lace and turned to
him, arms open and smiling. Lucas frowned. "Come on. Not like that Change."
She walked up to him, and twined her arms around his neck. "Come on. For once
let it just be me and you," she pleaded.
"Don't be a stupid, bitch, there is no me and you. Get off." He pulled at her
arms but she wrapped around him like a cat.
"You're lying; I know you love me, more than a little. You take care of me,
give me stuff—gave me this." She ran her finger under a thick gold chain around
her neck, and the dog tag engraved with LL swung free. "Lucas Luthor." She
clicked it with her nails. "I've never taken it off since you gave it to me.
Just like you asked. Tell me you don't care."
Lucas looked around the room—so bland, so normal. She was so happy with it; saw
it all as a gift instead of payment. Thought the chain was for her…"Yeah, okay,
a little. Sure."
He kissed her, hard and rough, the way 'Lex' always kissed him, and she purred,
stretched in his arms. She leaped up and wrapped her legs around his waist, and
he kissed her, slid fingers inside her and flexed them, pushed them in and out,
and sucked the moans out of her mouth.
"Harder, more, harder," she panted, and writhed frantically on his hand, trying
to get more sensation, better sensation….
"Whatever you want." He pushed harder, slid more fingers into her, deeper, wet
slicking his fingers, his palm… "You want my hand up in there, hunh?"He
laughed, and bit her, chewed at her breasts while he rubbed his thumb over her
clit. Hands under her ass, he walked her over to the bed and dumped her on it.
She landed in an ungraceful heap, legs wide, a feral smile pulling her mouth
wide. He unbuckled, pushed his pants to his thighs and pulled her thighs
farther apart—she growled as he shoved into her.
He fucked her hard, brutally, but the rhythm slowed and he found himself
watching her face, listening to her. He was fascinated with her desperation,
her need. He saw that she really thought she loved him. In a few short minutes
she was straining upwards, arching and groaning, and he had to concentrate hard
on not coming with her…he pulled out, his cock straining, so close to coming he
ached. She gave him a gift back. She changed, grabbed his cock and swallowed it
and he fucked Lex's mouth. It hurt when he came, felt like his ass and his cock
were on fire.
After, he lay with her on the bed, and held her as she slept. When she lost
Lex's form, he was awake, watching, still holding her. He got up, and cleaned
quickly and dressed quietly. He had one last duty to perform. He kissed her
cheek, smoothed the hair up and back from her forehead. Pressed the muzzle of
the gun to the curve of bone, and shot. He checked to make sure she was dead.
Everything taken care of, loose ends tied up—well, his loose ends, Lex had the
whole freak-show thing to deal with, but he had perfect faith in Lex's
abilities to succeed. He'd survived Dad after all. Whether he'd survive Clark
was another matter.
Love was a fucking bitch.
He unclipped the necklace and slid it into his pocket. He wrapped Tina in her
blanket, tucked the ends around her and stood for a brief moment at her side.
Alerted his hand-picked staff about the clean-up and took one last look around
before heading out.
He heard Wan Chai was lovely this time of year….
***** Chapter 19 *****
 [img-thing]
It was late evening when Lex stopped off at the penthouse. Lucas sent word a
package was waiting for him there and knowing Lucas, it could be anything.
Considering how strange their last encounter was, Lex thought he should be
prepared for anything.
The apartment was black—all lights were out when he came in, and the staff was
gone. He didn't like that much. He walked down the hall feeling more than a
little on edge, turned each corner with the expectation of Lucas jumping out to
scare the hell out of him. Lex was angry and getting more annoyed by the
second.
"Lucas!" He stepped into the dining room, and glanced around. "Lucas, damn it,
I don't feel like playing your idiotic games."
The dining room was nearly as dark as the rest of the apartment. A pair of
buffet lamps near the far wall cast the only light. In the middle of the long
table, propped up against an overblown floral arrangement rested a manila
envelope, 'Clark' scrawled across the front. He picked it up, behind it was an
envelope stamped with the LuthorCorp.
The note attached read, Take the company. Maybe we'll run into each other
again, maybe not. LL.
God damn it! How could he leave now? Clark needed—they both needed Lucas more
than ever, now. That bit of weirdness between them wasn't important, he could
deal with it just fine—he needed Lucas' clear cut sense of—of—fuck, why
lie—they needed his total lack of conscience.
He ripped open the envelope marked Clark, and upended it—a letter fluttered
out.
'Lex, I didn't run out on you. I'm giving you space. It's better I do. Don't
worry about the dead jock, you're the one Clark loves. Everything I could find
out about him is in here. It's my present to you.
Love.
"Bastard." Lex muttered, and sorted through the papers scattered over the
tabletop. He found copies of newspaper articles about Clark's disappearance—
terse reports scattered on the police blotter, tucked between the DUIs and the
auto thefts at first, and then a tiny article, then an op-ed or two about
Smallville's troubled youth and run-aways. There were flyers begging for
information, ‘Have you seen this boy?'
The photo on the flyer looked like a typical yearbook picture. Lex could hardly
believe the boy he was staring at was the same one probably asleep on his couch
right now. He looked like—like innocence personified. Healthy. Round pink
cheeks. Clear green eyes with just a touch of mischief in them, crinkled at the
corners because he was smiling wide…a dead kid. Tragic, that the boy they were
looking for existed only in the past….
The stolen report about the kidnapping shocked him. It broke his heart to read,
and explained so much. The hospital file, what there was of it, told the story,
that and the side note that Clark's parents refused medical care—of course.
Wise. They couldn't afford to take the chance that someone—like Dad—might find
the information and turn it against their son. The abuse had been clear, that
particular exam unavoidable. That little boy's words, his and other boys, plus
the testimony of the train station witnesses, got that fucking pervert life. He
deserved worse, he deserved so much pain. It was disappointing to read the shit
had died in prison years ago. Lex could have made the man's jail time much,
much more interesting.
Poor Clark—so much pain, so much grief, but he still managed to build a life
and even be happy, Lex supposed, at least until the car accident tore his world
apart. Little more than a year since he'd lost that boy and left his home, but
Clark had suffered enough for lifetimes. Lex felt an irrational hatred for
Whitney Fordman. It was ridiculous—crazy—to blame him for Clark's destruction
but shit, he did. If Clark hadn't been so dependent on that boy…Lex took a deep
breath before reading on.
Clark had supposedly been adopted, which didn't surprise him, but the lack of
decent documentation worried him. He'd have to fix that. That girl, the
obnoxious little computer whiz, she'd be able to plug all the holes in Clark's
story, create another level of safety for Clark and his parents. Dad wasn't the
only one interested in these people, and to outsiders, Clark would appear to be
someone like himself, a mutant. In fact, the girl had recently detected some
fishing for information about humans with a little something extra….
Reading about Clark's appearance during the meteor strike Lex had been a victim
of was odd…it woke some faint memory of the time. It slithered away as he tried
to recall…his dad's gift of electrocution could be damn inconvenient.
There was something else about Smallville he remembered—before Lionel
refurbished the plant there, he'd had a castle shipped from Scotland and
reassembled in the town. Lex shook his head. That was Dad's style; over blown
and full of contempt for everyone not Luthor. He'd have the place opened. It
was about time he took a look at Smallville and his connection to it—and the
mutants. It wouldn't be long until Clark was ready to go home, and if the
castle was livable, he wouldn't have to leave Smallville after taking Clark
home, at least not right away.
Lex called as soon as he left the apartment, to apologize to Clark for being
late, told him to order dinner for the both of them if the dinner the Cook had
prepared was gone. Which it was. Both plates. Plus desert…Lex smiled as Clark
gave him excuses, apologized, claimed he'd left Lex some pie, but it was apple,
and apple was very nutritious as everyone knew…Lex laughed out loud. "I
understand completely." Clark's appetite had become almost frightening lately,
he'd even gained a pound or two, and that was the surest sign he was finally
overthrowing the effects of the meteorite. Lex suspected there were some other
changes too; maybe something dark was beginning to release its hold on Clark.
He hoped it was so….
                                  [img-thing]
Clark paced around and around the open space of the apartment, trying to tell
himself he wasn't worried because Lex was a few hours late. He was busy, a busy
man in charge of a company that he'd put on the back burner too many times. Lex
was probably trying to make up for all the work he let pile up trying to help
him…
Stars were already beginning to flicker in the sky. He leaned on the balcony
wall and watched them get brighter, watched the moon swell on the horizon. He
drifted in and out of rooms, pestered the staff until they were relieved to
leave for the day, read a little, watched some TV—he'd reheated the food a
couple of times before giving in and eating his. He felt a twinge of guilt when
he ate Lex's too, but he was really hungry, and it felt so good to satisfy it.
He licked his fork of the last bit of Lex's dinner, and wished he could satisfy
another need as easily…if only certain people weren't being so damn stubborn.
He was just about to call Lex, when a key turned in the lock and he turned,
happy. Lex was home, at last.
 
Lucas stood there, grinning at him. "Butterfly, heeeey, how the hell are you?"
Clark picked up the scent of alcohol on Lucas…and something else. Something he
shouldn't smell like, not on Lucas… "Lex."
"Oh yeah, don't worry, he'll be home soon, he's just running an errand."
In the next second, Clark was standing nearly on top of Lucas and Lucas
blinked. "Fuck, you're fast…"
Clark grabbed his jaw and pushed him back, he sniffed around Lucas' mouth, his
neck…he pushed his tongue inside Lucas mouth, tasting, growing angrier and
angrier….
Lucas hissed when Clark drew his head back. "Hey, the doorknobs in my ass, do
you mind?" Lucas shifted uselessly, and Clark growled, tightened his grip.
Lucas grimaced. "You're hurting me."
 
The protest was weak, more a groan than a growl, and Clark didn't care anyway.
He said, "I can smell you. When you're near him, it changes. I know what it
means. Lex doesn't know about you, but I do…because I'm different now. Neither
one of you get it, just how different I am now. Did you know, my skin can't be
penetrated? They can't give me a shot; they can't cut me open anymore. Nothing
hurts me…"
Lucas gasped out, "meteorite—"
Clark looked thoughtful. "True…that can still hurt me. But I can move awfully
fast Lucas, awfully fast. And I think I learned some things from you.
Understand?"
Lucas grinned, even as Clark increased the pressure of the thumb resting on his
Adam's apple. "I was leaving. Am leaving. You and I know what will happen if I
stay." Clark let the pressure ease, and Lucas coughed, and added hoarsely,
"Even if Lex doesn't."
Clark leaned away but kept him trapped against the door. "If you come back,
I'll have to kill you. You know it as well as I do."
"Kill me?" He laughed. "You couldn't kill the twins—"
"That wasn't for me. But if you try to take Lex from me, or hurt him in any
way, I'll kill you." Clark's voice shook a little, he felt hot from head to
toe, and he could feel the fire building up behind his eyes. Lucas tried to
move—froze when Clark lifted his lip. Clark knew he could kill Lucas; the smell
of Lex on him was making it easier to imagine that he could hurt Lucas. Clark's
nostrils flared and he picked up Lex and fear and...he backed away from Lucas,
said with disgust, "You're hard."
Lucas exhaled sharply, and laughed. "I'm not the only one."
Clark flushed deeply, and took another step back.
 
Lucas smoothed his hair back and smirked. "You better be careful with my
brother, Butterfly, or I'll come after you." He stepped back, and opened the
door, gave Clark a sketch of a bow. "Going."
Clark stared at the floor, confused…a part of him liked had liked Lucas, even
knowing that he was…untrustworthy, mildly put. "I guess I should thank you. In
a way, you gave me my life back. I appreciate it. And—you know."
"S'okay. I just wanted to buy Lex a nice present. Besides, you probably saved
his life too."
He shut the door, and Clark stared, shaking with reaction. What happened here?
Who the hell was that psychotic person who'd nearly…injured Lucas? The minute
he smelled Lex on Lucas, he'd been overwhelmed with a desire—a need—to hurt
him. Clark worried at his lip. This, this was something Lex had to know about.
If it was a part of who he was, Lex needed to know. But later. Much later.
Like if Lucas ever came back into town…
The phone rang, and it was Lex, and his voice was wonderful and warm and
soothing and it made Clark happy when Lex laughed about dinner, or the lack
there-of. Nothing was more perfect than Lex's laugh….
                                  [img-thing]
Lex finally allowed Clark back in the penthouse, and Clark was being grumpy and
impatient again. Lex tossed a few balls at him, and Clark complained that the
exercise had become irrelevant, that Lex was indulging himself with
it…pointless.
Lex threw hard, smacking Clark between the eyes with a blue rubber ball.
"Ow,"he snapped, and even rocked his head back.
"Good, good," Lex murmured, and preceded to toss balls unerringly in that spot
between his eyes, one, two, three, ball after ball until Clark stopped playing
and let them bounce wildly in all directions off his forehead. It was obvious
that he was becoming annoyed, and Lex tossed again— Clark's nostrils flared, a
sure sign that he was losing his rather short temper.
Lex stared at him, expressionless, throwing and throwing until Clark yelled,
"Enough!" His eyes flared bright red, and the air shimmered between Lex and
Clark, the ball collapsed, sizzled, and a mini fall of ash fluttered to the
carpet.
Lex dropped his arm, his eyebrows raised in surprise. "Clark. That was prefect.
Perfect. What an amazing example of control. Wonderful! You got mad, but you
controlled it—and better than that, you used it. I'm so proud of you."
As always, Clark's flare of temper was gone, quickly as a summer shower. He
blushed, pleased to be praised. "I figured it out. I thought that if I
concentrated completely on what I was looking at, I'd be able to contain the
heat vision. And it worked."
Lex looked at him opened mouthed. "Thought? Thought? You weren't a hundred
percent sure?"
"Well, pretty much—besides, you heal fast."
"The fuck—Clark!" A flurry of balls flew at him, and he dodged each one of them
easily. Lex shivered as a quick blast of air rushed past him. Clark was showing
off…and was suddenly in front of him, arms full of little rubber balls,
smiling….he leaned over and kissed Lex, kissed him until Lex reached up and
wrapped his arms around Clark's neck and kissed him back, slowly, thoroughly,
and poured everything he felt about Clark into it—tried to make his tongue and
lips and hands and eyes tell Clark ‘I love you.'
He wanted Clark to feel it in his bones, he wanted to breathe love into Clark's
lungs and mouth…God, he wanted to fuck Clark, he wanted Clark to fuck him, come
all over him and in him….Clark groaned, and Lex heard the plop and smack of
balls falling out of Clark's arms and hitting the carpet, the floor…warm, warm
hands holding his head, hands capable of cracking his skull like an egg and
knowing that Clark wouldn't—couldn't—made him hard, so hard—
"Clark, Clark, I can't wait, fuck, I can't, I'm sorry, I wanted to take you
home first…"
"Oh my god, now—right now."
Lex raced down the hall, Clark right behind him. He hit the bedroom door hard
enough to shiver it in its frame. "Wait—wait—are you sure?"
"I can break the door down," Clark said, "Or you can open it. Which way do you
want it?"
"Um…every way possible...?"
.
"That works for me." Clark waited while Lex reached behind himself and opened
the door. "I did kind of want to pick you up and kick in the door though, maybe
throw you over my shoulder…"He grinned and Lex rolled his eyes.
"Who are you, Clark Gable? Get in and shut up."
They were in the bedroom, and Lex started to yank his clothes off, but Clark
stopped him, said, "Wait, I want to—I need to see you." He carefully unbuttoned
Lex's shirt, slid it down over his shoulders so slowly—for the first time in
quite a while, Lex was actually aware of the sensual feel of expensive fabric
against his skin. He found himself leaning into the touch of the fabric,
mesmerized by the feeling, by Clark's intense concentration on his reaction to
it. His nipples hardened, and Clark touched them lightly, absorbed in watching
the skin pucker, feeling them pebble under his fingertips. He licked a circle
around one rose peak, slowly, lazily, tracing a ‘C' on the puckered areola.
"Mine," he whispered and the cool stream of his breath made Lex shudder…Clark
continued his tentative touch, drawing his fingers over the center of his
chest, stopping every inch or so to press against his white skin, watching the
spot bloom pink and fade…
He dropped to his knees and opened Lex's pants, teased the zipper down, pulled
the pants open wide enough to expose his dick, trapped against the silky
material. Clark nibbled the length behind the silk of Lex's boxers, licking and
sucking the material until it was translucent, running his teeth gently,
carefully over him until Lex's knees shook and he was seconds from begging
Clark to fuck him or stop—he yanked Clark's t-shirt over his head, and sank his
fingers into the muscles of his shoulders, urging him closer, bumping his dick
against Clark's hot mouth and pleading silently.
"You smell so good. I can't wait to taste you." Clark's sweet voice was rough;
it sent a stab of electric heat straight to Lex's belly, heat that spread lower
as Clark pulled the boxers down, just enough to kiss and nip at the sparse
scattering of loose curls there, auburn against his china pale skin…licked from
his navel to the base of his dick. "Lex, Lex, I knew you'd taste as good,"
Clark gasped and spread his hands wide over Lex's ass, squeezed, pulled him
closer and rubbed his face over Lex's wet skin. "I wanted to touch you…I've
wanted to feel you ever since the first time I saw you…I used to dream about
you, about you doing this to me…I used to dreamt about you a lot, Lex."
Lex shivered. "Did you? I-I remember too, the first time I saw you…fuck…you
touched me and I got hard—I remember you did too—"He laughed, and groaned, just
the thought of it made him harder. "God, I wanted to suck you so bad that day…"
And if they hadn't been interrupted, what would he have done to that boy….
Clark pressed kisses on Lex's hip, his belly, over the silk covered head of his
dick. "Yeah. Yeah. I didn't know anything then." He looked up at Lex. "I know a
lot, now," he said, and peeled the soaking boxers off.
Lex felt as if Clark was cataloging every reaction, every touch that made him
groan was being memorized, filed away for future use. The thought made his dick
bounce; he dripped pre-come in a thin trail down his thigh. Clark caught it on
a fingertip and painted it around Lex's navel, smirked when Lex's breath
hitched. He slowly, slowly circled the tiny mouth of his navel, dipped his
finger in and out, mimicking that familiar motion and watched Lex's face.
"Do you want me to do that, want me inside of you?"
"Yes, fuck me. Fuck me right now!" Lex demanded, yanking on Clark's hair,
trying to pull him to his feet.
"Ah-ah," Clark grinned, and pulled out of Lex's grip, kissed the little swell
under his navel, bit just hard enough to make Lex gasp, rise up on his toes a
little. "Making sure you know who's in charge here," Clark growled against his
damp, stinging skin.
Lex felt helpless; like Clark wasn't going to let him go until he was damn sure
that Lex was his and no one else's ever, that he knew it right down to his
bones…it was a new feeling for him. He kind of liked it. He couldn't imagine
this happening the first time they'd met. He would have fucked Clark and left
him, forgot him..."I love you."
Clark looked startled, and slowly smiled up at him. "I know you do." He slid
his mouth along the straining length ofLex's dick; let it bounce up into his
mouth.
"Clark." He bit the word off, and tried not to thrust up to Clark's mouth.
Clark kissed him, licked and sucked at him, each touch of hot, wet tongue
against him made him moan, babble—he was telling Clark how much he liked it,
only words just tumbled and twisted and devolved into a stream of tortured
vowels, and Clark—stopped.
Lex moaned, "No, not yet," and he could feel Clark shake his head, and
suddenly, Clark's whole body was shaking and he was panting hard against Lex's
leg.
Lex looked down at Clark. "Did…you just come?"
Clark looked up, red staining his cheeks and with an embarrassed grin he said,
"A little…"
"How do you come ‘a little'?"
Clark stood and pulled his jeans off, boxers off, toed off socks and grinned at
Lex all the while. He was hard—still, or again, Lex couldn't tell—Clark
followed Lex's glance, just shrugged and smiled, and turned a slightly
perplexed and unprotesting Lex to face away from him, kissed him deep and wet
right above the cleft of his ass.
Lex shivered, bent forward to hit the bed on his elbows and Clark chuckled,
sucked kisses around the swell of his cheek. "Peaches."
"Don't eat me," he mumbled, trying to joke, distracted by his hands grabbing up
handfuls of material as Clark's mouth drove him up the bed, made him spread his
knees wider.
"Oh, but I have to," Clark rumbled against his quivering skin, and his tongue
flicked out and traced spirals from the dimples gracing Lex's ass to the
quivering hole, coaxed him down and open until Lex's mouth was pressed against
the brocade bedspread and he had it in his teeth, grinding them, groaning…
"Clark. Clark. I don't think I can wait any more, I really don't," he gasped
and wondered if he'd bitten a hole in the material….
"Mmm…You're too coherent. I think we have some time yet—"
"Clark!"
"Shhh, Lex, shhhh…"He stood and went through the closest night stand at Lex's
direction, rummaged around until he found lube. He squinted at the battered
tube with a little frown. "Geez, this is pretty old."
"It's been a while, a really long while, which is why—ah!—I'm feeling a bit of
urgency." Lex gasped, "Don't worry, it's fine, it's fine—use it."
"Okay…um. Do you want to—to turn around? Face to face? I would like to—to see
you."
Lex took in Clark's flushed cheeks, his lips were a little swollen and
glistening and red, the tip of his tongue danced over them, his eyes were huge
and black and not as fully confident as he'd sounded before…Lex couldn't
imagine not seeing his face. "Yes. I want to see you."
 
He was drowning in sensation, the sight of Clark's dick, red and heavy and
thick made his mouth fill, he must have groaned because Clark laughed, low and
deep. "You make me feel the same," he murmured. He looked down at himself,
pushed back the skin and the deep rose head glistened, dark and wet, he
squeezed it gently and the slit pouted open, drooling thick silver pre-come.
"I'm going to get you ready to be fucked, okay?"
"I'm already ready, really—just—"
Clark kissed him, breath pouring over his lips, tongue wet inside of his mouth,
teeth pressing against his lip. The combination of warm and soft, and the hard
bite of teeth against his tender lip made Lex groan. It seemed Clark understood
how that little spice of pain made the pleasure that much deeper, brighter and
more alive…his tongue was stroking the inside of his mouth, and his fingers
were stroking his balls and then stroking him inside, the feeling as he worked
the lube inside forced Lex to close his eyes, to feel Clark's fingers working
inside him, Clark's hand slowly pumping his dick—Lex heard the wisp of a groan
and then—heat, silky, firm and pressing against him, Clark's dick, he'd dreamed
about it, in his hand, in his mouth. Lex groaned as Clark pushed in—in his ass,
god…he dropped his head against the pillows and moaned, and Clark slid in, one
long steady drive inside.
Lex inhaled—held it until Clark was inside all the way. He let it out, gritted
his teeth and waited to adjust.
Clark held him, kissed him, "You're wonderful, you're amazing, you make me feel
like I've never done this before, I love you, love you…" Clark murmured on and
on and slowly began moving, rocking his dick in and out of Lex—waiting for him
to set the pace.
"More," Lex said, "a little more, more, harder, oh shit, just fuck me…"
Clark smiled, his expression said he knew he owned Lex, that anything he wanted
Lex would give him, any way he wanted it, that he loved Lex for it…Lex
tightened on him and his eyes rolled back. "Ready?" Clark groaned, and when Lex
said yes, Clark began fucking him, deep and fast, twisting until he hit a spot
that made Lex howl.
"Unh—yes. Yes." Clark lowered his head a bit, still locking eyes with Lex he
stroked in and out, grunting with the force of it, but still careful, so much
power so controlled. It might look like abandon but Lex knew what kind of power
he had at his command, in his control…"Pick me up."
"What, like—from the bed—hold you?"
"Yes—yes!"
Clark's eyes flared, and he grinned, panting, he picked Lex up, held him in his
hands and fucked him standing up in the middle of the room. Lex wrapped his
arms around Clark's neck, dug his heels in his ass and laughed and groaned as
Clark lifted and dropped him, lifted and dropped him…
Lex was balanced on the edge of the world, the feeling of orgasm built and
built, he was on the verge of flying apart—he was never going to come like
this, it was just going to build and build and build—for a moment he was
seriously afraid of dying, and he'd never come, couldn't come, he opened his
mouth to tell Clark that. "I—Ah!"
With a shout, without being touched, he exploded, come shot up between the two
of them, splattering Clark and his chest, he felt the warm slap of it on his
neck and higher, Clark leaned in and licked it out from under his chin…with a
shuddering sigh, Clark came and Lex could feel every second of it, from the
moment his dick swelled, to the heat as he filled him, he felt the jump and
twitch of Clark's muscles against the underside of his dick, his balls….
 
"Can I put you down now?"
"Ow. Yes…amazing what's hot in the middle of orgasm just hurts like fuck
after…" Lex grunted in surprise as Clark let himself drop to the floor still
holding Lex, so that he was sitting in his lap, with Clark's hands still
cradling him. He was being stroked gently, and Clark was sniffing, nuzzling
along his shoulder, his neck…he licked around his ear, and nibbled at his lobe.
"Clark, Clark, I'm done, done…"
"Mmm. Just smelling. Tasting a little. You really, really. Taste good. Smell
good. You feel good; I can barely stop touching you."
Lex winced as Clarks hand ghosted over his dick. "Ah, love, but I'm only human,
and I think you wore me out. Completely." He winced again as Clark slid out,
still a little hard… "You're amazing Clark." Lex looked at him; let his eyes
drink in every bit of Clark. "You're beautiful." How could anyone ever want to
hurt him, Lex thought. Clark's face was shining with love, with contentment.
How could anyone want to see that face creased in pain, not after they saw how
beautiful he was when he was happy?
Lex felt a sharp stab of discontent. He didn't want to share Clark, after
finding him; he didn't want to give him up. Clark's hand was suddenly soothing
him, rubbing over the back of his head, and his soft voice was flowing over
him. "Nothing will come between us. Everything else might change Lex, but this
never will. Nothing will take you from me."
Lex wondered if he'd said that to Whitney, if he'd felt that way about him. And
this is where you need to start putting your demons to rest, he scolded
himself. If you want to keep Clark, than you better start supporting him in
everything—right now. "Come on baby, we need to clean up and get ready for
tomorrow."
Clark's expression was dangerously close to a pout. "I don't want to think
about that right now. And don't take a shower just yet, please? Let's just get
on the bed and…let me hold you."
"Ah. You cuddle," Lex said, and Clark snickered.
"You say that like other people would say ‘you're a snake handler.' Get on the
bed, you know you are too."
Lex climbed up on the bed, sweaty, sticky, stinking…he yawned, turned to his
back and held out his arms. "When we wake up, I'm in charge, understand."
Clark slid into the waiting arms and wrapped himself around Lex, pushed his
head under his chin. "Of course," he purred. "That's the way I want it."
                                  [img-thing]
Morning came quickly, it felt as if he'd barely closed his eyes and Clark was
waking him. Lex stumbled into the shower, hissing a little as he moved. His
body seemed to think it had suffered some sort of major assault—he was sore in
places he'd never known it was possible to feel…he wasn't sure, but he
suspected one ache he was feeling was his spleen.
It took him a few minutes under the hot spray before he could stop smiling.
He was out and dressed quickly, he took a few minutes to toss a couple of items
in a bag. He'd get someone to pack a proper bag later and send it on. Right
now, he just wanted to get things moving before one or the other of them lost
heart.
Clark wasn't where he expected him to be. He found him in the kitchen instead
of his nook in the study, apparently bent on making breakfast.
"I told the cook to take the day, I hope that was okay?" Clark asked, and
poured whatever it was he had in the bowl into a pan on the stove. Lex
nodded…it had never occurred to him that Clark could cook.
He tried to imagine Clark doing any number of boring, everyday things and he
couldn't, he couldn't see this beautiful creature being just average, but that
was—had been—Clark's real life. Lex watched Clark silently, seriously, make
pancakes, fry bacon, eggs…put them on the plates already sitting at the table.
He looked up at Lex, and smiled. "Come eat," he said, and Lex sat.
An ordinary life. A normal life. What if Clark couldn't fit back into
Smallville? Would he force himself to, or would he come back with Lex? Would he
stay….?
Clark was quiet, and a little distant, and Lex began to worry that he'd made
the wrong choice the night before, that even if Clark had seemed to be in
control of what happened, he hadn't really been. Lex worried that he'd
overstepped some invisible boundary…he should have known better, he, of all
people, should have been able to see some sign that Clark was just responding
the way he thought he had to…Lex watched Clark eat and tried to figure out how
to fix another mistake.
Clark stopped chewing and stared at Lex. He swallowed and shook his head with a
little smile. "It's not you, relax. You're worrying so hard the air around you
is turning blue. It's me—I'm nervous, I guess."
Lex stabbed at a bit of egg, relief making him smile. "But there's nothing to
be nervous about. They want you; they're dying to see you again. I still think
you should call them, Clark. I think just dropping in—"
Clark shook his head. "I have to just go. I have to just…be there. I thought
about running there, you know, just going. But I want you there too. It's kind
of selfish I know but…if they don't want me anymore, I need you there."
He nodded. "All right, Clark. You have to do it your way. I understand.
They finished eating, smiling at each other now, Clark was there with him, and
it felt nice. Just the two of them…nice.
 
"Well. Thank you for a delicious breakfast, Clark. I'll get my bag and yours
too, if you like. Are you ready to go?"
"Don't need a bag." Clark picked up the red jacket thrown over the back of his
chair and slipped it on. "I'm ready now."
"That's it?" Lex asked. He looked at Clark prepared to go back home with
nothing but a cheap cotton jacket and nothing that he came with and for some
reason, he couldn't keep his eyes from flooding with embarrassing tears…
"That's all?"
Clark nodded. He slid his hands in his pockets and said, "Can we go?"
                                  [img-thing]
"Okay Clark, we split the radio—you get ninety minutes and I get ninety
minutes. I believe that's fair—though as driver I call the first half of the
drive." Clark laughed and climbed in, but part of his mind was racing, racing
with all the thoughts he'd tried to quiet the last forty-eight hours….
Three hours. Three hours were all that had separated Clark from his family for
a year, longer. One hundred and eighty minutes away from another life.
For miles and miles Clark said nothing, just listened to the low rumble of the
radio, the sing of tires on asphalt…if he wanted to, he could listen to Lex's
heartbeat, like he'd done all last night. He could hear more but he didn't let
himself. Not yet. He felt Lex's eyes on him from time to time but he didn't
speak, didn't ask Clark if he was okay or anything and that was good. Lex was
smart like that, Clark thought. He knew what you needed when you needed it.
Most of the time, he grinned and remembered Lex's little mini-melt down in the
kitchen. He worried too much sometime. Trying to see all sides of everything,
all the time. It must be exhausting, poor Lex.
He sighed, and Lex stirred next to him, reached out a hand and squeezed his
knee. Clark laid his own over it, and smiled when he felt Lex purr a little at
his touch. Soon, soon…
They flew on; traffic was light this early in the morning. They were nearly in
Smallville before they saw many vehicles, mostly trucks, older model cars…. it
was quiet; the sun was beginning to rise and the gray morning air lightened
slowly to rose and yellow, the air beginning to warm. As the sun finally broke
through the cloud cover, Clark felt—alive. Felt possibilities—maybe this was
going to be good, maybe it would turn out okay. They did want him, sure they
did. New kid or not, they still loved him, he was positive.
He realized that his eyes were squeezed tight, and the grip Lex had on his knee
would have made a normal man gasp. "I'm okay," he muttered.
"You sure?"
"Yeah—yeah, I'm—STOP!"
Gravel rattled and pinged off the sides of the car as the Porsche slewed to a
screaming stop on the shoulder, a long plume of dust flying out behind them
like dragon's breath. Lex was staring at him open mouthed, panic making him
paler. "WHAT?"
"Stop, stop, stop…"Clark muttered and yanked the seat belt off, pushing open
the door as he did, scrambled outside….
The sun was just topping the edge of the Smallville sign. It looked pretty
recently re-painted; the colors were brighter than—before. Clark walked up to
it, and ran his fingers over it and swore he felt dents in the wood, little
dents from thrown stones. Crazy. Everyone threw stones at the sign, the damn
thing was so corny, it begged to be stoned…his finger sank into a dent in the
‘M' in Smallville and he leaned his head against the sign and cried.
                                  [img-thing]
Lex watched Clark from the car. He had the feeling that what was going on here
was no business of his and to offer comfort right now would be an
intrusion—every bit of him was desperate to run out to Clark, but…no. This was
private. He sighed and scrunched down a little in his seat. There was no
competing against a memory.
Fucking Saint Whitney, he thought. I guess I'd better get to love you, too….
                                  [img-thing]
After a bit, Clark leaned back from the sign, ran his hand over it. "God, I
loved you so much," he whispered and wiped his face. "I still do. I know that
right now, you'd be happy for me. I'm in love again. Even though nobody could
ever do for me what you did, he's a good man. He cares, like you did. And he's
going to help me be like you, even though he doesn't know it yet." Clark
snorted out a damp little laugh. "He's slow on the uptake. Like you. Anyway,
I'm home." He sniffed hard, and wiped his nose on his sleeve. Reluctantly drew
his hand away from the sign. "I'm home again."
Lex was watching him as he came up to the car. He had that greyhound look, the
one where he wanted to know everything but wouldn't ask. Clark thought how cute
it was that Lex actually imagined that he was unreadable…he leaned over and
kissed Lex's cheek, let his fingers linger there. He inhaled deeply, and said,
"I'm sorry."
Lex put the car in drive, and carefully pulled back onto the road. "Don't ever
be sorry for love."
Clark waited but Lex didn't speak again, and the music of the road filled the
car. They were minutes away and driving steadily closer.
Wheat. Corn. The roads. The houses, the town, the buildings, the center of
town. The movie house, the Beanery… he thought it would look cleaner, fresher
than Metropolis, less gritty and defeated but it didn't. He thought the faces
would look less drawn but they didn't. He sighed. He'd expected…magic. The sun
shone no less here than on the road into town but he felt it less, it seemed.
Lex tapped his elbow. "Hey, coming home isn't easy. But this is your home. I
know what you're feeling, but. Your family is here. They're waiting. They've
been waiting every day since you left for you to come back to them, believe
me."
Clark nodded, and held onto that thought Mom and Dad, and his sister Corinne.
Kala. They were at the end of the road. Waiting.
They were out of town and on the road to the farm. The fields were so many
shades of green, just like he remembered and they passed fields of flowers and
rail fences and cows, which looked at them with total lack of interest. Clark
smiled. Cows.
Rooks lined up on the fence posts they passed, looking with a little more
interest as sunlight flared from chrome on the car body.
Still flying, flying…"Turn here," Clark said, and the Porsche smoothly made the
turn as if it'd been doing it forever. "Up that way—see the sign?" Clark's
heart was pounding, pounding…his mouth was dry, and his stomach was tight. He
pressed a hand to his chest to—to hold his heart in.
"Okay," he muttered. "Okay…here it is."
Lex stopped in the driveway and unbuckled his belt. He rolled down the window,
and the sound of farm life filled Clark's ears again. The smell of the farm
filled his nose.
"This is your home? It's—"
Clark grinned a little. "Tiny? Awfully yellow? Smelly?"
Lex smiled. "I was going to say beautiful. Charming. Like you. Now get out of
my car."
Clark took a deep shaky breath and got out. Stood up, walked on his drive way
for the first time since…the first time since he'd lost everything.
He went back to the car. "I can't. Take me back, please."
Lex looked up at him; his eyes were full of sympathy. He clasped Clark's hand,
and said, "Babe, you're crushing my door." Clark snatched his hand away, aghast
at the clear prints of four fingers in the silver metal. "Clark," Lex said,
"Get up that driveway before I kick your ass up it."
Clark took a deep breath and nodded. Right. Now was the time, now was right…he
turned and gravel crunched and rolled under his feet, he counted his steps. Sun
beat on his shoulders; a breeze stirred the leaves overhead. Somewhere a bird
trilled up and down the scale, dogs barked. The muffled low of cows and the
scent of the barnyard drifted out to him. He heard a light voice say, "Mommy…"
He was bent over in the drive, tears running hot down his face. He could hear
Lex jump out of the car behind him, when Clark straightened and looked up, he
was looking up into his dad's eyes….
His dad looked confused. He looked at the Porsche, looked at Clark. His eye
brows rose. "Clark?" It was oddly conversational, as if Clark had gone downtown
to get a gallon of milk and come back a little late. Suddenly, his face went
bone white and he staggered forward. "Clark, Clark, Clark…."
Clark was in his dad's arms and they tightened on him in a way that would have
been painful a few weeks ago—"Oh God, son, oh my God"—his dad was crying, Clark
had never heard his dad cry like that, like it hurt, like it gagged him to do
so. It scared him, and suddenly a shriek split the air, a baby was crying and
then his mom was hanging off him, screaming his name, kissing him all over his
face, crying—he was crying so hard.
It was over, he was home. He filled himself with his mom and dad, their scent,
their feel; it was like being in a dream, or waking at the end of a nightmare….
"Mommy?" A tiny voice asked uncertainly, trembling on the edge of tears. His
sister.
"Oh baby," His mom stretched her hand out to the tiny person standing on the
drive, staring wide-eyed with fear at him. "Come here, honey, it's Clark, your
brother, remember? The pictures you have? This is him." Clark watched her face
slowly crumble, and he felt a little wash of sadness—she was afraid of him. Her
fingers twisted the little pink buttons on her white sweater…she backed away,
the breeze lifting her blonde curls, and when she frowned, she looked just like
his dad, the same outrageously blue eyes, they pierced him just like Dad's....
Clark dropped down onto the drive and said, "Hi, it's me, Clark. Your big
brother. I'm so happy to see you. I'm sorry I wasn't here before, but I am now.
I hope we're going to be friends." He winced—that was probably the stupidest
thing he could say, he thought, and hoped he hadn't blown it.
She looked wary, but came closer when Clark held his hands out, and she let him
hug her. She pulled back, little hands on his shoulders and studied his face,
and he saw that her eyes were shaped like his mom's, her face was the same
elegant oval, overlaid with a baby's softness… "I think we'll be best friends,"
he whispered. She gave him a lightning quick kiss on his cheek and pulled
completely away to run behind his mom, but she peeked the whole while they
talked.
Clark grinned; she was a beautiful kid, just like he knew she would be. Her
serious blue eyes winked at him from behind his mom's legs, her little hand was
fisted tightly in the material of her jeans. His mom was saying, "We have
pictures of you on her wall, and she has a book filled with pictures, and some
of your old drawings…it's her favorite book." she smiled down at Kala.
His dad wiped his nose; his voice was rough when he spoke. "We're a family
again. This is the happiest day we've had since Kala was born. We missed you
terribly son. We tried so hard…"he stopped, and swallowed, and his mom went on.
"We never stopped looking for you, Clark."
"I know. Lex found the stuff you put out about me—oh! Lex!" He looked at the
empty spot on the drive—none of them had even heard the car drive off. "Lex,
I've got to stop him!" He started to move and his mom almost leaped on him,
grabbing his hand.
"No, don't go, don't go away again."
"Son…"
"I promise I'll be right back, I swear…only long enough to bring him back. Only
that long." Clark hated the fear on his parents face, hated that he'd done
that—but he needed to bring Lex back. He needed him as much as he needed to be
home. "Promise."
He turned to run, run, and suddenly he was—flying, his feet flying over the
ground, he didn't even know that he could do that. It felt good, his muscles
stretched and sang—this was something they'd been longing for, it seemed. God,
it was wonderful, incredible, almost as good as sex and as soon as he had the
thought a shivery little warmth settled low in his gut—it just felt so
incredibly good to run all out like this, to break free from the earth. He was
happy in a silent frozen world that belonged only to him. He raced past crows
frozen in flight , leaped over a newspaper, bent and standing on end and
scattered here and there around the sidewalk like pop-art statuary. Clark had
to giggle; just a little, this was so cool—his own private world.
He was almost reluctant to leave the sanctuary of his frozen world, but he
dropped back into normal speed at the bridge that he'd first seen Lex Luthor
on. Perfectly, Lex was on the bridge, the Porsche a sliver flash as he sped out
of town, but no way he could go faster than Clark Kent. Clark sped ahead and
came to a stop in front of the car. The Porsche shrieked to a stop. For a
moment the air was dead silent—the tic and creak of cooling metal the only
sound, and then slowly building, from inside the stalled car came a volley of
curses, louder and louder as Lex climbed out of the car until he was inches
from him, and really. Really. Angry.
"The fuck, Clark! I almost hit you!"
"It's okay, you wouldn't have hurt me—"Clark started.
"Me, you goof! What about me?"
Clark stared open mouthed, he could feel the crawl of fire up his neck and into
his face and he grabbed Lex. "I'm so stupid! I wasn't thinking—but you left me!
After you promised!"
"Clark…Clark. Look, you're home, they want you, it's your happy ending, don't
you know that? You don't need me to remind you of bad times."
"Oh Lex, you drive me crazy! You're going to stay—and then you run away—you
hide…Lex, you're staying here with me, please. I love you. I love you more than
anything else in the world. I need you more than anything else. Do you
understand what I'm saying?"
Lex nodded.
"Do you feel anything like I do? Do you love me too?"
"Yes, fuck yes."
"Then get back in the car and drive me back home and this time, meet my
folks—and my baby sister." He smiled, and Lex sighed.
"God. All right let's do this…yes, let's do this."
***** Chapter 20 *****
 [img-thing]
His parents were still in the drive way when he came back, his mom holding the
baby, his dad behind her, his arms around the both of them. When they saw the
car, relief made them sag against each other. Clark pulled Lex out of the car,
and dragged him over to his dad and mom. "Lex Luthor, meet Jonathan and Martha
Kent. My parents."
Lex shook hands, and Clark picked up Kala. "And this is my sister. Say hi to
Lex, Kala."
Lex stuck his hand out and she reached out, a little unsure what to do, so she
kissed it. Clark could see the ice in Lex's eyes melt, and he smiled, a small
smile but sweeter than any Clark had ever seen….
"Clark. Clark." His mom was shaking; his dad really looked like he was going to
pass out this time. He stared at Clark, his mouth quivering …the guilt and fear
hit Clark like a train.
"Mom, Dad, about what you just saw—something happened to me not too long a—"
"Your powers are back," his dad interrupted.
"My—what? I mean…you…know?"
His mom and dad looked so conflicted, as if they weren't sure if it was a good
or a bad thing… "When you were a baby, before you were taken…you were
different. And then you weren't and we thought…we thought it was for the best.
So you could fit in."
Clark gaped at his folks, totally at a loss for words. Lex touched his arm.
"Remember," he said, "I thought that you learned awfully quickly how to control
your abilities—this explains it. You already knew, you just didn't know you
knew."
Clark shot Lex a look, but before he could speak, his mom grabbed him and
hugged him hard. "Son, we'll talk about it later, let's please go in now.
Dinner's ready and your sister is hungry, okay?"
He looked down at Kala who'd managed to inch her way to stand next to Lex. "Oh,
I'm sorry, Kala, we'll go in to dinner now. Do you want to walk with Lex?"
She nodded solemnly and Lex just as solemnly took her hand and they walked
together into the house, Clark trailing his family. Looking. Just—looking.
 
Dream. Dream…he knew it wasn't a dream, but still, it felt…unreal. Hyper real.
Too everything, too—much. Maybe it was him, maybe it was the—abilities, Lex
liked to call them.
Clark was walking up the porch stairs, feeling the rough wood under hand,
walking into the kitchen and the familiar smell made his eyes ache. It was all
the same. And different. Maybe the bright new look he'd searched for on the
road was here.
No one wanted to talk yet, not really talk about any of it and Clark was fine
with that. He didn't know what to say, how to start to explain what had
happened…his folks were afraid to ask, and he took advantage of that.
Dinner was weird—normal as hell and freaky too. Lex was so polite, a real
gentleman and his mom was bowled over, completely taken with him. It was
strange to see someone urging Lex to eat, worrying that he was too thin—looking
at Lex it was obvious, but he'd never seemed that way at home—Metropolis, he
meant Metropolis, not home—he was used to Lex kind of begging him to eat. Maybe
because he'd been so wrapped up in himself, he didn't notice that Lex was as
thin as….he'd been. Clark looked down at himself, surprised how big his wrists
were, how thick the muscles of his arm were…like another person. He glanced at
Lex, and Lex was watching him, eyes so intense—he smiled and looked away when
he noticed Clark noticing him.
Anyway, the food was really good. Just like he remembered. He ate as much as he
could and it must have been the right thing to do. His mom was beaming. Kala
was sneaking looks at him, and it made him smile. She was cute, she seemed
really bright, and it was obvious how much his parents doted on her. The
kitchen was full of toys and bright cups and cute little plates…they had a
different kind of life now, his folks. Kala tilted her head and seemed to
examine him as intently as he'd examined her and then turned her attention to
Lex. When she looked back at Clark, she smiled. She had a beautiful smile, just
like his mom's.
He took a sip of his coffee and watched Lex nibble around a piece of pie and
slide a bite off his fork between his teeth slowly and Clark felt a deep stab
of arousal, followed by a wave of guilt. He shouldn't feel that way in his
mother's kitchen. Should he? He watched Lex swallow, and wondered when he'd be
able to get him alone. He blushed…looked up and saw his dad glance at his mom,
and blushed harder.
He felt a little confused…he felt a little short of breath. Sitting in his
parent's kitchen, he really, truly felt like an alien.
                                  [img-thing]
After dinner, Lex left for the castle.
"It's all ready for me, Clark. I called ahead. And it's late and you need to be
alone with your parents. I'll call in the morning, okay? He glanced towards the
house, and pulled Clark close, and kissed him, and Clark shuddered, moaned.
"Please Lex, stay with me tonight, please."
Lex shook his head. "Take it slow, babe. Your parents have to get used to you
being here, let alone you and your….lover."
"Lover. Yeah. " Clark smiled, and let his hand drift over Lex's lapel, a little
touch but one that made both of them flare with heat…"Okay. But call me first
thing tomorrow. My phone will be next to me. All the time."
He watched Lex drive away. He didn't even need to look to know that his parents
were watching from the window. He didn't know if they'd seen the kiss but he
might as well tell them about Lex and him. He had so much to tell them. He
didn't know how to start.
                                  [img-thing]
"Mom…where do I sleep? I wasn't sure if…I didn't know…"
"Clark, your room is ready for you. It's been ready for you. Your—your pillow
is in Kala's room."
"My pillow?—Oh. Good. I left it for her. I'm glad she still has it."
"It's her favorite thing—besides the bear you sent her—" his mom stopped, her
eyes filled with tears and Clark felt like shit.
"I'm sorry. Mom. I'm really sorry."
"I know, hon, I know. You go to bed now, sweetheart, we have all the time in
the world to talk about what happened, okay?"
Clark nodded sadly. He knew that wasn't true, no matter how much people wanted
it to be, but it wouldn't hurt to agree with her. Make her feel better.
 
He sat on the edge of the bed, and stared at the floor. He was so tired…his
room was just the same. Nothing changed. It smelled of lemon polish and clothes
detergent. Nice and simple. Not like smoke and come and alcohol…not like
sandalwood and cinnamon, like ho—Lex's apartment. He sat on the edge of the
bed, and wished—he wasn't sure what for.
Looking in the chest of drawers, he found clean underwear, and pajamas. They
were the ones his mom bought a few years ago for Christmas, a joke. They had
cowboys on them, like a little kid's jammies and he'd laughed. He laughed
again, and held them to his cheek. They were so soft. And clean.
He walked down the hall to the bathroom, he heard his mom reading Kala a
bedtime story in a soft murmur, and Kala's answering giggles and questions…
The bathroom was tiny. He'd never noticed before that it was so tiny. It
reminded him of Eric's bathroom. Only that bathroom had held no rubber duckies,
or whales or…what was that, a lobster? In Eric's bathroom he'd had his own hook
for his towel… Clark turned on the shower. He remembered that it took a little
while for the water to get hot. In Lex's bathroom, there was a separate room
for the sink and a separate area for the toilet and you could pee and flush
without freezing the person showering. In Eric's bathroom you had to wait.
Clark stepped into the tub and carefully put Kala's bath sponge on top of the
toilet tank. He stepped under the scalding spray and experienced a slightly
warm sensation. Relaxing. Nice.
In the Twin's bathroom, there'd been a bolt in the wall for a chain.
He shuddered, felt sick…once he'd spent all night there, standing almost on
tiptoe, so the choke chain wouldn't tighten around his neck, he remembered
being so cold, his knees shaking…Clark was washing, and crying—figured the
sound of the water made it safe to do so. Eric—Eric had put out clean towels
for him every morning…once, Jake bought him a shower gel he'd said would smell
nice on him and it'd smelled like the ocean, yes, it was nice…Lucas had liked
to watch him bathe and when he did, he'd just smiled and smiled…Clark was
shaking, the washcloth slid down his stomach and covered the butterfly.
Butterfly.
He could burn it off, he could probably burn his own skin, it would only hurt
for a little while. He could try to scrape it off…he was leaning against the
tiles and shivering and sobbing.
He was safe. No one was ever going to hurt him again.
He put his hand over the butterfly, and Lucas was licking it, tracing the wings
with his tongue. Clark sighed, his dick jerked a little under his hand, filled
a little. Lucas always wanted to see it, he'd make Clark keep everything on but
take his pants off, and stare at it, he'd been fascinated by it, constantly
wanting to touch it, maybe because of what it meant…maybe because those people
had done it to Lex too. Clark didn't know…he moved his hand over his dick and
watched himself grow, the butterfly stretch and spread its wings…Lex knew, he
had his own…Bobbie had liked tagging her pets. There under Lex's arm, where the
skin was so thin, so tender, under his arm so no one could see…just like
Clark's, it was just for her…Clark sighed and tightened his grip, slid his
thumb over the head peeking out—the one on his dick had been the real mark, not
the tattoo on his shoulder. The real mark was the one that hadn't come off.
He bit his lip, and stroked harder, doggedly working towards orgasm, just
wanting the release…Lex knew, he read the wings, the black lines of the
monarch's wings that spelled out Mariposa. Under Lex's arm, Bobbie scored the
words that told him he was hers…mon chiot Clark gasped and came quietly, only
the way his arm shook and the way his stomach jerked told how strong an orgasm
it was
                                  [img-thing]
Clark was walking around the house. He couldn't sleep…the house was so quiet .
Too quiet…Lucas slept with the TV on, every single night…Lex liked music
playing in the background, and there'd been noise from the street all the time
in Metropolis. Here there were crickets.
He couldn't sleep in the silence….
Clark walked into the kitchen, filled a glass from the tap and gulped it down
as he rummaged in the fridge, leaning his head against the top of the open
door. Different. All the food was different—he slammed the door shut and
punched his thigh hard as he could.
What the fuck was wrong with him? This was it—what he wanted—to be home and
safe and with his mom and dad. Fuck. He wiped hot tears from his face and
slipped out the front door.
He looked up into the night sky and his eyes caught the loft… was that a light?
His stomach tightened, but when he looked closer and saw it was just a
reflection from the security lights of one of the outbuildings, he let out a
long breath. He exhaled again—sharp, quick— and gave in. Clark knew where he
wanted to be. He had to get there quickly. Took another deep breath and —
                                  [img-thing]
Clark squeezed through the fence and zipped across the driveway, he broke the
lock on the front door, but he figured it didn't matter, he'd be with Lex and
Lex was safe with him. Besides, any idiot crook breaking into the castle
deserved what they got.
 
He faltered when he entered the cavernous foyer; it was…he'd never been in a
place like this. It didn't look like a home, it looked like a museum. Somewhere
in this warren of rooms was Lex… Clark shook his head—he had these powers. Or
as Lex liked to call them, abilities so he might as well get used to using
them. He closed his eyes and sniffed.
There it was… Clark inhaled, and savored the smell, the taste of Lex on his
tongue, so familiar it made him hard right away. He listened, and heard Lex's
heart, the beat he could pick out of a crowd anywhere.
Seconds later, he was outside the door of the room Lex had chosen to sleep in.
He opened the door quietly and carefully, slipped soundlessly inside.
Of course Lex was sitting up and staring at him. He didn't say a word, just
held the covers up and Clark kicked off his shoes and climbed in gratefully.
"I'm not staying," he said.
"I assumed that was the idea when you didn't take your clothes off. You'll have
to call your parents anyway."
"Why?"
"Because they'll worry."
"But I'll be home in a few hours. I'm not going anywhere."
Lex sighed. "Clark…you parents aren't; going to believe that, not for a long
time. Be kind to them and let them know you haven't run again."
But I won't. I'm not going to run—this is where I want to be." He pushed into
Lex's side and slid down a little like he always did, so that Lex could pull
him under his chin. Clark thought about it…and realized the this,/i> he wanted
to be was with Lex. "Okay. I'll call them. In a minute. First I just want to
horrify you with cuddling."
"Clark, you should call them before you get comfortable—"
"Lex. I saidI would. Can't we just enjoy being close for a little? For my sake?
I really need it. I'm feeling kind of lost…"
"All right, Clark." Lex was quiet for a minute and then said, "I can guess how
you feel. When-when I first got home—"
He grimaced and was quiet, and Clark waited, prodded him a little when it
looked like he wasn't going to speak. "Tell me, Lex. Can you tell me what
happened? With the Galletti's?"
Lex exhaled, and looked totally relaxed, a faint smile on his mouth. Clark
could feel—hear—-how his heart raced though, smell the sharp tang of
sweat—fear. "What happened to me was pretty much what happened to you. It was a
game with them. They'd find someone they want and break them. Play with them. I
didn't know I was sold for a year. Collateral. As time passed, I came to think
of it as a sort of fostering, like…feudal families, all fair knight and brave
princes and-and…I was a child, you know? Until I was older, and realized that
it was just…abuse." Lex stopped speaking and Clark held him.
"I'm going to call my folks, and I'll be right back." Lex nodded and Clark took
his phone and sat on the edge of the bed.
"Mom? Sorry, were you awake—oh. I'm really sorry, but you guys were sleeping
when I left—I'm at Lex's. I might spend the night. Okay. Yes, me too. G'night."
Lex was looking at him. Clark frowned. "What? Youneed me right now."
"Clark—this is all old, old stuff. Happened a long time ago. It doesn't…I don't
even think about it." Lex rubbed a spot right between his collarbones. "It's
just a ghost of a memory."
Clark nodded. "You know what? When I look at you, I see the reason that can
never happen to me again. You made me—unhurtable? Is that a word?"
He reached out to touch Lex's ankle and Lex slid it casually out from under
Clark's touch. "You're grateful." He said it in a flat tone and smiled again
and Clark rolled up the bed and shook him.
"More than that, idiot. Much, much more than that. I love you. I guess I'll
have to say it a lot. I love you. I finally found you. Love—" He poked Lex
gently in the chest. "You."
Lex smiled, a real smile, lop-sided and toothy, and Clark felt like he did the
first time he walked into the sunlight after he was fixed, just that wonderful.
"If you're staying Clark, would you mind…your jeans are kind of rough…."
"Pansy."
"Because you're sanding my skin off with your cheap Wal-mart jeans?"
Clark grinned and rolled on top of Lex. "These are the ones you bought me, Mr.
Two Hundred Dollar Jeans Make All The Difference."
"Shut up."
                                  [img-thing]
Jonathan stared up, his eyes making patterns out of ancient water spots and
cracks in the plaster ceiling. It was almost like looking at clouds, that spot
looked like a duck, that one looked like a butterfly, that one looked like a
face, that one—
"Jonathan…"
He jumped a little—he'd thought Martha was sound asleep. "Hmmm?"
"He is going to be fine, isn't he?"
"Of course. He's going to be just fine. He's home and soon, he'll be back in
the swing of things…"
"But sweetheart, I can see he's not. He's so sad. It tears my heart to see how
sad he is. Not just Whitney—it's more than that. Something terrible happened to
him."
"What's killing me is how the hell did he end up with Lex Luthor? What's the
deal there?" Jonathan was quiet, his fingers rolling and unrolling the edge of
the blanket...he sighed, said, "Did he—he kissed him, right? I did see that,
didn't I?"
"Looked like—he's there now. It's odd, isn't it—suspicious."
Jonathan rose up on an elbow and peered at Martha. "How do you mean suspicious?
You think he coerced Clark into this?" He was already feeling anxious—the idea
that Luthor might have hurt his son, taken advantage of him in some way made
his heart beat faster. He started to sit up all the way.
"No," Martha pushed him back down and put her head on his chest. "No, not like
that…but something bad happened to Clark and maybe he had a hand in—in—rescuing
him. I'm thinking he knows a lot about Clark that he might not tell us. Clark
looks at him like he used to look at Whitney."
Jonathan sighed. "Yeah. But I liked that boy. I'm not so sure about this one."
"Time will tell, hon. Time will tell. We'll just have to try and be patient."
Jonathan threw an arm around her and pulled her closer, kissed the top of her
head. Great. Patience wasn't exactly his strong suit.
                                  [img-thing]
Lex had a room on the second floor refitted into an office. There was a little
balcony off one side that let in lots of sun—a good place for Clark to sit.
There were stained glass windows along the other wall and he kind of liked the
light it cast, that and the fireplace made it the perfect choice for an office.
He had the feeling he'd be in Smallville for a while yet….
He played with a tiny rubber ball he'd found in his briefcase and stared at the
number his pet genius had found for him. He'd thought a lot about the next step
for his…charges. For the people who were surely being born right at the moment.
They needed a safe haven, with structure and support, and he thought he finally
found the idea. He just needed people with vision, and kindness—people like the
Kents—willing to reach out, willing to take a chance with even the least likely
prospect and deal with other worldiness. He looked at the number in his hand.
This person might understand the need for a place like he proposed; certainly
they were skilled in searching those people out…very skilled. He smiled wryly.
He considered it a plus that his family had had contact with them before. In
fact, they were right under his nose.
He dialed, and waited. "Mr. Sullivan? How are you, sir? This is Lex Luthor." He
laughed lightly. "Yes, your new boss."
                                  [img-thing]
Clark climbed out of the truck in front of the school and turned back to his
dad, eyes wide, begging…he felt weird. He pulled his hand over hair, freshly
cut and still curling wildly, even with a ton of gel struggling to hold it in
place. Don't make me go in there, please…
"Go on, son, it'll be fine. Don't worry."
Clark sighed and lifted his shoulders, waved at his dad as he drove off. Okay.
He could do this. If he could survive…everything else, this had to be a piece
of cake.
Of course, the very first person he ran into was Lana Lang.
She was about to sweep past him when she jerked to a stop, and looked at him
like she'd been struck, she even gasped a little. She jerked her chin up and
glared at him and it made him smile, it reminded him so much of Lex. She
faltered a little at his smile…lowered her chin. "Well. Clark Kent. Back
again."
"Lana. How are you?" As if he cared. But it must have be the right thing to
ask, her expression thawed a bit and she managed a small smile in return.
"I'm fine, thank you for asking." She sailed on, and Clark shook his head. The
more things change…
 
The day dragged on. The classes were slow, god awful slow, pointless and
boring. They were going over stuff Lex's tutors had already taught him and they
were doing it at a snail's pace and everything was broken down into tiny bite
size chunks that even a baby could have followed. The students were…stupid.
Either they couldn't understand, or they didn't pay attention. There was a quiz
and Clark sat and stared out of the window forever while he waited for everyone
else to finish.
Maybe he could test out. Maybe his folks wouldn't force him to keep going to
school because one thing he was certain of—he refused to play dumb. He heaved a
great sigh. He couldn't do this. Lex would get tutors for him again if he
asked. And if his parents agreed. Because really, he'd go insane if he had to
play this game.
                                  [img-thing]
Clark was standing on the little rise at the edge of the ball field, watching
the guys practice. Last time he'd been on the field, it was to argue with Whit.
He smiled. That argument seemed so damn important then…he shook his head.
Stupid.
Pete caught up with him at the edge of the football field. He waved, and jogged
over, and Clark had to admit, he looked pretty damn good in his uniform. He let
his eyes roam over Pete, frankly admiring, and Pete faltered. Clark wondered
idly if maybe he'd pushed it, gone a little too far. A year was a long time to
stretch a tentative truce—
Pete said, "Clark. I heard you were back."
"Pete." He watched the play of emotion over Pete's face. He'd always had such
an open face…Pete glanced back at the guys on the field, some of them had
stopped, were watching the two of them. Pete dropped his helmet and threw his
arms wide. "Fucking Clark Kent—c'mere, you shit."
Clark laughed and stepped into Pete's embrace, stooped a little to hug him,
hard, tight—carefully. "Pete…damn, Pete…"
"Fucking hell, Clark Kent. Look at you—what the hell—what did you do while you
were gone, work out non-stop?"
Clark looked down at himself and had an odd moment—a feeling of looking at
someone else, someone…big. Built. He grinned, blushed a little. "I guess I just
kind of filled out finally. Got a growth spurt."
"I'll say. You need to try out—" Pete stopped and blushed and Clark shook his
head.
"No—oo…I don't think that will work out Pete. I'm not hiding. Not for anyone"
"I hear ya. Good for you Clark. Damn, it's good to see you."
Clark thought about hugging Pete again, but decided to give him a break—held
his hand out instead and Pete grabbed it, shook it hard. "Good to see you too,
man. It's…pretty good to be back."
They walked back down to the field, and Clark could see Pete glancing at him
from the corner of his eye.
"CK…what…nah, never mind."
"Pete, not now, but we'll talk about it some other time, okay? Promise."
Clark could see Pete kind of draw himself up, trying to hide a pleased
expression. "It's cool Clark. Whenever you want. When you feel right about it,
I'm here."
Clark sighed quietly. It probably was the best thing that had happened to him
all day.
                                  [img-thing]
Clark was sprawled out on Lex's floor, digging his toes into the thick rug. His
shoes were under the couch, his socks under the coffee table. His pants were
draped over the back of the couch; he figured his shirt must be back there
somewhere too. He had his arms looped around Lex's legs, listening to him
describe a project he was excited about.
"Let me get this straight," he giggled. "You didn't know what to do with the
mutants so you're organizing a…a secret crime fighting society? What, like The
Angel's League?" he laughed, waving a Warrior Angel comic at Lex.
"Careful with that, and why not? The comic isn't any weirder than real life—I
have a guy who can walk through walls, I'm sleeping with a guy who can shoot
fire out of his eyes—" Lex dodged a sock "—and you really aren't much of a
supportive boyfriend, are you?"
Lex realized what he said, and blushed a little and Clark smiled. Boyfriend?
"Anyway," Lex went on, "it's a thought...I've got some people looking into
property around Smallville, something private…I'm thinking of opening the plant
again." He looked at Clark. "I'm thinking of accepting an offer on LuthorCorp."
"But won't you need LuthorCorp to help fund the new project?"
"I think I'll be okay. Besides, if my plans work out, we'll support ourselves.
Sort of like—rent-a-cops to the world. We can be the people who stand between
decent folks and people like—like the Gallettis'. People like Jake." Lex
growled.
Clark stared at Lex. "Wow. You've given this a lot of thought, haven't you?
And…do I come in at some point in your plans?"
"I hope so. The kids will need a mentor, someone who's been where a lot of them
have. You're uniquely qualified for the job, Clark."
Clark nodded. What Lex was saying just underlined what he felt so strongly
every day—that he was never ever going to be normal or average ever, that he'd
never fit in completely anywhere…except Lex was making a place for him, wasn't
he? He stared at Lex, watched him working with complete concentration on
something. Wondered what was going on in that mind of his. It was almost a
little scary, what lengths Lex would go to for him.
                                  [img-thing]
Clark carried a basket of wet laundry out to the clothesline. He stopped a few
yards away and watched his mom talking to Kala. Kala was smiling up at her, and
Clark had a memory of his mother talking to him like that, how beautiful he'd
thought she was with her red, red hair, how soft her hands were on his cheek.
His heart swelled, and he felt a measure of relief. No matter what happened to
him, his parents had his sister. They had each other.
He dropped the basket at one end of the line, and handed his mom a sheet. She
thanked him and pegged it on the line next to other damp sheets.
"Why you insist on doing this when we have a dryer…"
"It's good for the clothes. And they smell better. And sometimes, it helps me
think about—stuff. Things that bother me or things that make me happy. It's
quiet out here, relaxing. And besides, Kala likes the sun."
He had to agree—it felt good to have the sun touching him all over. He made
faces at Kala, much to her delight. He was in the middle of imitating a monkey,
and doing pretty good from the reaction he was getting when his mom made the
smallest inquiring sound.
Clark braced himself. He knew it had been too good to be true, this not asking
that they were doing.
"Take down the dry sheets, will you son?" He breathed a sigh of relief, until
she went on. How was it that he never remembered Mom was a master of the one-
two-punch? "I have to ask Clark—" Clark grit his teeth and nodded his head,
ready for—whatever.
"Why do you shower so much? It's really…noticeable."
Except for that. Clark looked at her, tilted his head. "Shower? Shower…"
He did. Lex had never said anything about it but she was right…a little feeling
of lightness stole over him. "Well…I never really thought about it, Mom." He
folded a sheet and dropped it into the empty basket. "It's…well." He shrugged.
She wanted to know. "The worst smell, one of the worst smells is dirty humans.
People." He laughed, with no trace of humor in it. "It's a smell that clings,
crawls into your nose all thick and greasy and won't let go, what you wear,
whatever you touch. You can wash up at a sink and it's never enough…you smell
like dirt and industrial soap. I hated being dirty. When I could finally take a
shower daily it was nice. It was more than nice—I got in the habit of showering
a lot, a whole, whole lot when I was with—" he stopped, horrified. Oh my god,
he thought…he looked at his mom, bright red with shame. He'd not meant to say
that much. She was looking at him with tear filled eyes, and he felt horribly
guilty. Horribly guilty.
"Son, son, why didn't you come home?" Her voice was so soft, so full of grief.
"I don't know." He couldn't say anymore but that.
"But what you must have gone through—where did you go?"
He folded another sheet, carefully lining up the corners, like Jake taught him.
‘Where did you go', his mother asked, not ‘what did you do'….
"I—I lived with this guy—not like that," he said when she started. "I worked in
his store. He was a good guy, he treated me like his son…and even I had my own
place for a little bit, and friends…but something happened and I had to live
somewhere else for a while, and then Lex—Lex kind of turned up and he helped
me. I lived with him." He smiled at his mom a little. "Actually, it was there I
kind of went nuts on the showers. He can afford it." He grabbed another sheet
to fold.
His mom nodded, and Kala yelped, "Hungry, Ma!" and the spell was broken. They
finished hanging the sheets, his mom carried Kala, and he carried the basket,
followed them back to the house.
                                  [img-thing]
Being in school angered him, drained him, it was hiding his anger that made him
so tired. His parents refused to let him drop out, unreasonably insisting he
needed—what—social interaction? For what? Or with what, a bunch of little kids
whose biggest worries were pimples, or who the hell liked who? They just didn't
get it. And Lex—Clark ground his teeth. For him to go along with his parents…it
felt like betrayal, no matter how Lex explained it.
Clark walked the hall with his head down, not seeing how the crowd of kids
parted around him, he just heard their voices. He always heard them,
whispering, pointing when they thought he couldn't see and truth, it didn't
really matter. What annoyed him was that they thought it mattered, that he gave
a crap what they said about him. He wanted to stop and let them know their
opinion meant nothing because his life was so much bigger than this, he'd been
through hell and Smallville and its tiny little minds were freaking amateurs
compared.
Pete tried, he really did. He was a good guy. He tried his best to draw Clark
out but there was too much between them. Clark had too much to hide, and all
Pete could feel was that Clark was pulling away. Clark didn't want to but he
just kept freezing and couldn't stop…and…maybe. Maybe he'd talk to Lex and see
what he thought about letting Pete know some of what had happened to him.
Lunchtime, he chose a seat out of the way, as usual, ignoring the comments and
sneers. He'd just settled down and pulled a book out of his jacket pocket and
some kid sat next to him. There was a long moment of silence and then the kid
said, "Hey."
Clark looked up into eyes rimmed with black, spiky black and red tipped hair
falling into those eyes. He was smirking; his lips moved and Clark could hear
the silver stud in his lip click against his teeth…
"You ran away to Metropolis. You lived there for a year on your own."
"Yeah." Clark said and tried to keep reading.
"What was it like? I'm thinking of taking off myself. Maybe you know some
places I could stay…"
Clark dropped his book and stared hard at the kid, right into his eyes, willing
the kid to see... "No. I really don't. And don't be stupid. Stay home."
The kid flinched back a little but managed to work up a sneer. "Stay home? What
are you, an after-school special? If you knew what my life was like, you'd buy
me a fucking bus ticket."
An icy shiver marched up Clark's spine. He shuddered and turned the move into a
head shake. "No matter how bad it might seem I'm telling you, it's way worse
out there."
"You're—You're like the rest of these assholes; you think you're better than
me. I thought you'd understand, since you left and all—but look at you. You
come back here ‘cause you couldn't make it out there? Well, guess what? I'm
stronger than you. I'll make it."
Clark leaned over and grabbed the kid by the wrist. He ground out, "You think
it's some kind of romantic bull-crap living on the street? All the kids banding
together—making a family—helping each other? Sure, sure—first night out, those
guys robbed me blind. There's always someone waiting to take advantage of
you—listen to me. The street will grab you, fuck you raw and leave you to die.
No one cares, you hear? Stay home—" Clark dropped back into his seat, shoved
the boy's wrist away from him. "—at the least, stay away from me."
The kid stared back, openmouthed, eyes wide in a face gone pale. He quickly
pasted an angry sneer on his face. "That hurt, you jerk-off."
Clark looked down and saw that where he'd held the boy's wrist there were long
red bruises circling the pale skin. "I—I'm sorry."
"Yeah, fuck you." He jumped up and walked quickly away, rubbing his arm and
Clark felt like scum. There was no call for that, for him to lose his temper—he
could have hurt that boy.
 
Clark heard the buzz amp up as the boy slammed out of the cafeteria doors, he
could feel eyes on him, and he didn't care. The hell with them all. He reached
under his chair for his book bag. Enough. He was going home for the day—maybe
for the week—the month! And he didn't give a damn about what his parents had to
say, not today.
He felt someone standing behind him. He heard their heartbeat but he didn't
look up, he refused to look up…thin, cool arms went around his neck and a round
cheek was pressed against his—before he could jerk away, Clark heard, "There
you are. There you are."
He felt tears sliding down his neck; he was startled into crying too, loud and
kind of girly, right in front of a ton of kids who hated him for being
different, and he just didn't much give a damn. Clark turned as much as he
could in the chair. He reached up, reached out to her. He hugged her back,
buried his face in her shoulder and let go. "I missed you so much, I missed you
so much."
They held tightly to each other, and Chloe murmured in his ear, "I'm back. How
have you been?"
Clark rubbed his eyes, looked up at her, and laughed and laughed.
                                  [img-thing]
"Gosh, Clark. The place hasn't changed at all," she said, looking around the
loft. She sat cross legged on the end of the couch, rolling a bottle of juice
in her hands. "It's like I never left."
Clark looked around the loft too, seeing it with her eyes. "Well…no one's been
here to change it, Chloe," he said softly, but she blushed.
"Yeah…" she sipped a bit of juice and Clark reached out and patted her ankle.
"It's okay, Chloe."
"So, Mr. Lex Luthor saved you from a life on the street, hunh?"
Clark ducked his head and blushed. Stared at the juice in his hand. "Kind of.
Yeah. There were other—there was another person who helped me. But it pretty
much was like that. Lex saved me."
Chloe grinned at him. "Returning the favor, was he?"
"What? Oh! Ha! Yeah. And guess what—he did remember me."
She smiled this time, a smile full of affection. "Of course he did, Farm boy.
You're kind of hard to forget, after all." Her eyes carried a trace of sadness,
and Clark felt bad…"Knock it off, Clark, you guilt junky, you."
They made a silent agreement to change the subject. "So. When do I get the full
story on your return to Smallville?" He stretched his legs out and she plopped
them over her lap.
"Well…After Lionel the bastard transferred my dad to a plant in the asscrack of
nowhere, we figured that was it. He scared the hell out of me, Clark. I was
afraid—I didn't call anyone, text anyone, or send a damn e-mail, he scared me
so much. It was researching my WOW stuff, I guess, that got me singled out. I
was stepping on his toes…" She shivered. "Then he died, and there were shakeups
all through the corporation. Lots of people got fired, and lots of people got
promoted—my dad was one. And then, the new CEO called him and asked if he'd be
willing to run the Smallville plant again." She stopped, took a deep breath.
"And here we are."
Clark nodded, waited. It seemed like she had more to say. She took a deep
breath and went on. "And he hired me," she finished, with a great big over
bright grin.
"He did what?"
"Shhh! It was supposed to be a surprise for you but when I saw you…I couldn't
wait. I had to tell you now." She shrugged and grinned.
"Lex hired you—oh gosh, you mean to find kids for his school? You're finally
putting your WOW talents to use?"
Chloe laughed. "Lex's School for Wayward Mutants? The Academy of Higher
Evolution?"
"Hey, don't tease him, Chloe—that's my job," Clark laughed.
She looked at him for a long moment, and sighed. "So, how long have you guys
been lovers? I'm assuming it's love—I know you Clark. You don't give your heart
that easily."
He looked a little surprised and then smiled ruefully. "I'm not too good at
keeping stuff like that to myself, hunh? Oh god, Chloe. I do love him. And I
thought I never would love anyone again. There…there was another time after
Whit, I thought I was in love—briefly." Clark looked away and appreciated that
Chloe didn't ask, "But when I came to know Lex, I just…he helped me so much. He
did so much for me."
"Okay, just throwing this out there, and don't get mad, but—"Chloe put her
bottle on the trunk next to her. "Are you sure you're not grateful you've found
someone else to take care of you? Like Whitney did?"
Clark closed his eyes against the stab of anger her words brought, but it was a
fair question—from her anyway. "No. He helps me, but I don't need him to take
care of me." He swallowed. "Maybe what it was with Whit was…well, a little like
that. I guess I was kind of dependent on Whit like that. But trust me. One
thing I learned this past year was not to depend on anyone but myself."
She nodded. "I've talked to him, and I like him. And I know that your welfare
is the most important thing in the world to him. That and that you're your own
man. In fact, he's almost a little freaky on that point…" she tilted her head.
"I bet there's an interesting story there."
"Oh my god Chloe. You never ever stop do you?"
"Nope. Now tell me why Lex Luthor is creating an entire school to help—you.
Start first with how you're a mutant." She looked at him with a self-satisfied
little smile, obviously thinking she'd figured him out.
"Mutant? Ah…not quite…"
An hour or so later, he was escorting a very flustered Chloe back to her car.
By the time she was ready to drive away, she'd bounced back, and was ready to
start scouring the heavens for his home planet.
 [http://pics.livejournal.com/roxymissrose/pic/0004ze90/s320x240]
It was the last few warm days one could expect before winter really set in,
Indian summer…he was sitting on the fence at the far side of the pasture, Kala
on his lap.
They were watching the cows, and she was pointing out the calves, her slight
warm weight against his chest, her legs on either side of his. She kicked her
feet, and pulled the hair on his arms as she told him a long, incomprehensible
story involving the cows. Sunlight turned her blonde hair into a halo of butter
yellow, and when she looked up at him; her eyes were the color of sapphires. He
felt such warmth for her. He was overwhelmed with a desire to protect her, keep
her safe forever. He squeezed her gently. He could do it. He had the capability
to protect her…he pressed a kiss on the top of her head, and inhaled the scent
of baby powder and sunlight. She giggled, and turned her head to press a wet
smear of a kiss on his cheek.
"We see Lex today?" she asked hopefully.
"Mmm, I think so; he might come to visit you today." He hoped so—Lex had been
so busy the last few weeks, making up for all the time going into the project.
But Sunday—Lex said he'd try to catch up with him on Sunday…maybe Pete would
come over today, and they could head over to the mansion, and drool over Lex's
cars….
"Mommy made apple pie for Lex. He likes apple pie a lot." She said seriously,
"I helped Mommy."
"Did you really? Gosh, you're a good girl."
"Yes. I tasted apples to find good ones." She nodded; satisfied that she'd been
able to help make Lex happy.
He tried not to laugh. "Wow, I'll be sure to tell him, he'll appreciate that."
She looked up at the sky, and yawned. "Okay," she said, "time to go in," and
patted Clark's arm.
He transferred her from lap to shoulders and hopped down from the fence. He was
careful not to use his powers in front of her—his mom and dad thought it best,
and so did he. Later, when she was older, and understood the need for secrecy
he'd tell her. Right now, he was just enjoying being an average big brother,
jogging to the house, her thistledown weight bumping his collar bones. She had
handfuls of his hair tight in her tiny fists, and she leaned down, pulled his
head up to meet his eyes. "I love you, Clark."
He had to work hard to keep his feet on the ground
***** Chapter 21 *****
 [img-thing]
"I'm not sure I like being out here, Clark." Lex perched gingerly on the edge
of the tailgate, and breathed in the sharp scent of green things growing and
wet soil. Corn was all around them, on either side of the road, all there was,
was corn. It made him a little nervous—too many movies about things full of
evil intent coming out of tall stands of corn, he guessed. He eyed the head
high stalks and really got the feeling that something malevolent was creeping
through them—the very real possibility existed, this was Smallville, after
all—hell, it'd happened more than once, he was sure. Even Clark was glancing
around the fields, a little frown line between his brows. This feeling of being
watched though, didn't come from any meteor-mutant, Lex was sure…if they was
being watched, it was by a ghost….
Clark crooked a finger at him, and patted the bit of blanket next to where he
lounged in the truck bed. "Lex, I promise you the outside won't infect you.
Didn't you ever picnic before? Just relax, go with it."
"Hmm." He sipped some of the champagne he'd brought from the plastic cup Clark
had provided. He'd teased Lex about bringing champagne, pretending to have been
sad that all he'd brought were egg salad sandwiches, and inexplicably, Snickers
candy bars. Lex shifted to sit next to Clark, tugged at his khakis and willed
himself to a casualness he didn't feel. He knew that in the dark above them
there were flying insects with an appetite for blood, probably with a
preference for his. Clark smiled at him.
"Nice crease, babe." Clark ran his fingers over the knife sharp crease, and Lex
swatted them away.
"Well, if I'd known that I'd be lolling about in the back of my boyfriend's
pick-up truck, I'd have worn my overalls."
Clark grinned at him from narrowed eyes. "Oh, you'll pay for that, Luthor; I'll
make you beg for mercy." His hand ran up Lex's leg, and his fingers tucked into
the waist band of the khakis.
"Clark, you'll wrinkle my creases," he laughed.
The fingers nimbly undid the snap, and worked the zipper down. "I plan to do
more than wrinkle your creases," he whispered hotly in Lex's ear. "I plan to
wreck you, to make you scream…"
"God." Lex shivered and closed his eyes and felt any ghosts fly away when Clark
sucked his earlobe into the furnace of his mouth, reminding him that he could
do so much more with lips and tongue….
 
Lex's eyes stuttered open when Clark moved back, rose up over him, the moon
behind him throwing his face into shadow…Clark whispered, "Shh," when Lex
wanted to ask what he was doing, and Clark showed him the lube.
The wrinkled khakis were eased down and off, the ivory skin revealed showered
with kisses, leaving little roses all the way from the sensitive hollows of
Lex's hip to the thin delicate skin behind his knees. Lex protested being
teased so cruelly, so slowly...he bit his lip savagely, waiting for Clark to
take what seemed a horribly long time to get rid of boots and jeans, and pull
his t-shirt up and behind his head, and socks…Lex's heart turned over seeing
Clark so eager, so hard, looking like sex and—and those innocent white socks on
his feet—somehow, the socks made it dirty. He shuddered and thanked god for
farm boys and tube socks.
Clark squeezed a dollop of clear lube between his palms, and held it until it
warmed. "Lex, I promised I'd tell you this a lot—I love you. There's no one
else for me." He leaned closer, and a whisper away from Lex's lips he said,
"And there is no one else here but you and me." He stroked Lex's cool cheek and
chuckled. "You worry so much." His lips pressed down in that slow inexorable
way that Lex loved, almost forcing him to open to Clark, and the slow deep
exchange of heat and wet…sharp teeth grazed his lips and tongue, scraping,
nipping, worrying them, so sensitive until it felt like he could come just from
that…
Lex made a sound and pulled his leg to his chest, reached out for Clark. Clark
stroked warmed gel over his hole, a slow, coaxing, push of finger inside, every
hitching, maddening, slide inside made Lex's stomach clench and the tight ring
of muscle flutter, "Like you're trying to swallow me," Clark murmured, eyes
locked on the sight below him.
"Clark, I really would like it now."
"Lex…" Clark smiled at him, a wide lazy smile. He said, "I love how you beg
so…calmly. Just wait, just a bit more..."
Lex moaned in frustration, and then…Clark reached behind himself, and Lex
watched him, watched his face crumble, watched his mouth open and his chin
lift. He moaned again, softer when Clark pushed lube slick fingers into his own
body, and worked himself open enough to take Lex, to slide down on his dick in
one motion.
Lex missed whatever expression was on Clark's face, because he had his eyes
closed, and he was busy trying not to make it the shortest fuck they'd ever
had….
"Shit—Clark, Clark—oh god."
Clark's dick strained, and long strands of translucent pre-come dropped onto
his belly. Every roll of his hips made his dick jump, and sway, and Lex was
mesmerized… the hot slick glove of Clark's body seemed tailor-made for him, his
muscles gripped and released Lex like a mouth. Lex dug his fingers into Clark's
hips and thrust as much as he could until Clark said, "Lie still, let me do
it."
Lex groaned—hell, he screamed. Clark shifted, and moaned, "Oh…yes."
"Is that the spot?" Lex panted. "Right there?"
Clark nodded, dropped and rose on him, hair dripping wet and curling around his
face, made lovely sounds as he panted, open-mouthed and moaned Lex's name.
"Fuck, Clark," Lex muttered and let go of his hips, grabbed for Clark's dick.
"Lex! God—" Clark stopped, and Lex felt him quiver, from inside and out, Lex
felt the shudder right into his bones and Clark threw his head back, and
yelled.
Lex felt Clark throb in his hand, watched his come fly up, and drop against his
belly, once, twice—the touch of it made his balls draw up tight and was curling
off the blanket, screaming Clark's name and coming like his body thought he was
dying….
It felt so good, so free—
                                  [img-thing]
Lex lay against Clark's chest, Clark stroked his arms, his shoulders and tried
to explain to him how he was feeling lately "…and it's like I'm on a
rollercoaster ride—sometimes I'm so happy to be here and other times I feel
like I'm drowning. It's driving me crazy. I love my parents, I do, a lot, but
sometimes, I feel so—pissed off at them. And for no reason! They've done
nothing but…try and make me happy."
Lex said softly, "And lie to you about everything, and not find you when you
ran away and you were in trouble, and go and have another kid to love, and make
your past a secret. They didn't save you from the bad man, and they didn't save
you from the Twins…"
Clark snapped, "Lex. None of that was their fault."
"Of course you know that, but the little kid inside you doesn't. Sometimes that
kid's voice is louder than yours."
"Oh, so you're a businessman, a philanthropist and a psychiatrist? How about
you check to see if you're psychic too, and read my mind?"
Lex snickered. "Sometimes, you're cute when you're angry." He sat up.
"Sometimes. And speaking of angry, I wanted to talk to you about me
leaving—just for a few days, Clark."
Clark jerked upright. "But how can you do that? What about…the castle, what
about…"
"I'm scouting sites for the new facility. I'm sorry, but I can't trust this to
anyone else, the only other person besides you I trust is gone…so I have to
leave. Believe me; I don't want to leave any more than you want me to."
"Lex, Lex—don't pay attention to me—I know you have to go. It's just…I really
feel…scared thinking of being here alone."
 
"Clark. I'm not running off." Lex sat up and searched through the pile of
clothes for his, and began dressing. "And you're okay. Chloe's here, Pete's
here, your mom and dad are here." They dressed in silence, and Clark was lacing
up his boots before he spoke again.
"How long will you be gone?" he asked, and rubbed his face on his sleeve.
"I hope not long, but I can't promise you anything. Just—have faith it won't
take long."
Clark nodded. "Okay. And I'll try to be less of a jerk."
"Clark. I understand. No one wants to be alone. I hope next trip, you can come
with me."
                                  [img-thing]
Lex left from the helipad in back of the stone heap he called a house, and
Clark watched him go until the helicopter was a dot in the sky. He yearned to
be with him so strongly—he had the oddest flash, a bone deep feeling that all
he had to do was spread his arms and want it, and he'd fly up after him.
His days were full of waiting—waiting hurt him, made his stomach ache and sent
sharp thrills of pain through him during the day, when Lex's face would fill
his thoughts, when the memory of the touch of his hand grew sharp and huge….
                                  [img-thing]
Clark had just finished cleaning up the milking shed when his dad met him at
the doors. His crew were done for the day and he'd come to fetch Clark in to
dinner.
They headed over to the barn together, changed out of work boots and washed
their hands, chatting idly about farm business; a little about school…his dad
was drying his hands on a towel when Clark turned to him and asked, "Can I tell
you a little about what happened?"
His dad was very careful not to react, he just nodded, and Clark thought, ‘now
or never.' He took a deep breath.
"The reason I left was because I thought I was protecting you guys, I was
afraid I'd kill the baby—I thought that I killed Whitney—because I'm different.
For a long time after Whit died, I lived with a voice in my head constantly
telling me how terrible I was, what a worthless waste of a person I was. It was
like having a black hole in the middle of me and the more miserable I was, the
righter it seemed…Lex made me get past that. But I was still afraid to come
home. After I regained my power though, I knew I had to. Everyday Lex urged me
to…Lex saved my life in a million ways, Dad."
His dad sat close to Clark. "You have to know that at any time you could have
come home…" Clark reached out and put his hand on his arm, and his dad was
quiet again.
"Dad…stuff happened, I did stuff to…to survive…at first I couldn't get a
job…so." His dad turned white under his tan, and his mouth moved but he
struggled to keep quiet. "I never hurt anyone, Dad. I didn't really
steal…but…people will give you money for. Things."
"Clark." His dad sounded so sad—not at all what he'd expected. Clark looked at
him, and saw no accusation, no anger—most importantly, no disgust. He didn't
know if he could handle seeing disgust on his dad's face. He could barely
handle him looking so sad…he forced himself to go on…"I don't want Mom to know
about this part…I'm telling you because…you have to know. I was kind
of…kidnapped, I guess, and I had to live with these people who…were really bad.
Like that Man."
"No, damn it, no—" His dad jumped up, tears in his eyes. "We worked so hard to
protect you from something like that ever happening again—so hard! And—and—no,
no."
Clark was moving, backing away from his dad. His fault, they tried to keep him
safe and he walked right into it, brought pain and grief to his family
again—because it was true, there was something wrong with him—there was—
His dad reached out and grabbed him, grabbed Clark's face and for a moment,
held him so tightly that Clark couldn't move or break his grip…Dad stared into
his eyes, he said fiercely, "Not your fault." He shook him, "Not. Your. Fault.
Understand?"
Clark felt scalding tears flood his eyes, his dad's eyes were swimming, too and
when he blinked tears fell, Clark glanced down at the dark round spots they
left on his dad's grimy jeans… "Clark, it wasn't your fault, no one can blame
you. Besides, we don't keep a scoreboard of the times we hurt each other, okay?
We just—let it go. We just love that much more." He let Clark go, wiped his
cheeks before rubbing his rough hands over his own face. "Do you know who they
were? Can were find them?"
"Dad…'
"Because if we can find them, we need to bring them to justice. One way or
another."
"Dad…"
"Everyone has limits son. I'm sorry…"
"Dad….it's done. They'll never hurt anyone ever again, those people. Lex's
brother took care of that already."
"He did? The police…"
"They're dead. Lucas…has a pretty simple view of the world. An eye for an eye,
I guess you'd say. The Luthors bought—brought—me out of that place, and Lex
made sure that…he helped me become normal again, As far as that's possible. You
know." He smiled at his dad, and his dad laughed—or sobbed, it was hard to
tell.
"Clark…you're better than normal. You're…you're a miracle.'
"Right Dad. All the pain I brought to you guys, ever since I was little I did
it to you. I'm…I'm sorry."
His dad grabbed him and held him, rocked him, told him how wonderful a miracle
he was to them. Clark was so grateful that no matter how much he'd changed, he
hadn't lost the ability to feel a touch like this—he would have died for sure
if that had been taken from him. He needed to hear his dad tell him that he was
loved and valued. He wondered if he would ever stop needing it.
                                  [img-thing]
He stacked hay bales against one wall in the barn, smiling a little when he
thought back to doing this last year, and how he grumbled and sweated—it took
forever to do. Now, it was almost ridiculously easy. He worked, the rhythm of
grab-toss filling him, relaxing him, and as he worked, he listened to Kala and
his mom talking in the kitchen. They were making cookies, and the low murmur of
his mom's voice made him smile, the high, light tinkle of Kala's laughter made
him laugh a little too. Grinning, he turned his attention outwards towards the
farm and heard his dad humming as he drove the tractor out to the far field,
concentrated and saw him, the sun flaring off his blonde hair, the old John
Deere cap clutched in his hand as he ran the back of his arm over his sweating
forehead….
Clark tossed bales, stacked them, humming the same song his dad had been and
found his gaze turning to the stairs that went up to the loft.
His folks had told him the first day he’d returned home, that the loft was
still his, just like he’d left it. It still creeped him out, how little the
loft had changed when he'd changed so very, very much.
“The way you’re staring at ‘em, I guess you pretty much intimidated the hell
out of those stairs, Clark.”
He jumped—he’d been so wrapped up in memories he didn’t hear Pete come in
behind him. “Hey. What are you doing here?” He rubbed the back of his neck, and
smiled. “Been a long time since you’ve been here, Pete.”
“Yeah…you don’t know sometimes that you miss something until you have it
again—so—upstairs?”
He jerked his chin up and Clark hesitated, nodded. “Sure.”
They walked up to the loft, and Clark let Pete go first…mostly because he still
had a bit of a hard time actually climbing the stairs and stepping into the
loft…and maybe just a little bit to look at Pete’s ass…
“You are checking out my ass, aren’t you?”
“Of course not—okay, a little.”
Clark waited, and Pete said, “And many people have said it’s worth checking
out, my friend. Can’t fault your taste.”
Clark was startled into laughing out loud. This was certainly a new Pete, one
apparently very secure in himself. Good. It was a nice change.
They were in the loft and Pete stopped, turned….stared.
Clark imagined Pete saw what he saw, how it looked…the same. Just the same, the
models were still there, his books, the desk…Clark swallowed against the sudden
hot lump in his throat. The mirror was still on the desk. The trade blanket,
the same one Whit would tuck him in when the headaches were bad, was draped
over the back of the couch. He turned back to Pete. “It feels…kind of weird to
be up here sometimes.” He gave a shaky laugh, and jerked his head towards the
couch. "Sit down, Pete, make yourself comfortable."
 
Pete hesitated, and nodded. “Clark…I came up here to talk to you about…what’s
been happening. I can see you’re having a hard time fitting back in. In school
and all. I know this last year hasn’t been easy for you. You look…not like you
used to. You know, I used to watch you and-and-Whit together and you used to
look so, I don’t know—bright? Happy, anyway.” Pete shifted, looked
uncomfortable for a moment and looked up into Clark’s eyes. “This guy, this
Luthor guy…I hope he makes you as happy. He better know how lucky he is.” He
walked around Clark and sat on the couch, and Clark sat too and noticed how
dust free the place was. His mom really, really needed to learn to relax…
Clark sat still, his head down a little, watching his fingers twist back and
forth over each other. “So Pete, don’t take this the wrong way but, what do you
really want?”
“Nothing Clark. I just want to be your friend, that’s all.”
“I do appreciate that, Pete. And we are friends.” Clark stared a moment longer
before looking towards the closed loft doors. “It’s just…are you sure that you
just don’t want to know what exactly happened to the geek while he was in the
city?”
Pete looked back at Clark, not with the anger Clark had expected, not denying
Clark’s statement…he just gazed at him, studied him…calmly. Like he was trying
to decide something…and then Pete smiled at him. “Clark, will your parents let
you go off for a bit?”
“I guess.”
“Then let’s go tell them you’re going somewhere with me.”
Clark shrugged. “Okay.”
Pete gaped. “Just like that? Don’t you want to know where we’re going?”
Clark grinned and shrugged again. “It’s Smallville—how far can we go? What does
it matter?”
“I hope this matters,” Pete mumbled.
                                  [img-thing]
A very short while later, they were driving along the wall circling the
Smallville Cemetery.
Clark shook his head when he realized where they were. He didn't get angry—it
was obvious Pete meant well. "I don't think so Pete," he said gently. "I know
you want to help, but this has nothing to do with how I feel now, and…I don't
want to see. I know he's dead, I know he's gone. And those people don't want me
screwing with their idea of who he was."
"Do it for me, than, Clark. Let me be the friend I was supposed to be, okay?
Besides, I want to show you something I think you'll appreciate. "
Pete led Clark on a walk through the cemetery; they strolled past headstones,
and mausoleums, and great big over-blown Victorian memorials—weeping angels and
grief stricken cherubs—that looked at odds with the country graveyard, final
resting place of the descendants of no-nonsense German farmers. Pete led him to
a newer section, so new there were no trees and even the bushes were spindly
and young. He pointed out a white headstone. Fresh flowers sat at the base,
roses and lilies and white lilac…Clark remembered that Lana's aunt had a
florist's shop. He took a deep breath, and let the impulse to burn the plants
leach away. "Pete…"
"Clark. Come on." The headstone was engraved only with his name, his date of
birth and death. There was a picture of him—a graduation picture—in a little
weather proof Plexiglas frame. Clark stared, remembering the day Whit brought
the envelope with his senior pictures, remembered pretending to steal one. He'd
lost that picture with the jacket… "Look down, Cee." In the flowers sat a
laminated picture of Clark. Pete looked down at it fondly. "I figured it'd
still be here. Every time I come I leave a picture and every time those people
bring flowers, they throw it away. And I bring a new one. Yay for printers and
a home laminator." Pete's smile faded as he stared at the picture. A sharp jolt
rocked Clark and it hit him—Pete had never expected him to come home…
Clark folded him into a hug, and kindly ignored the catch of breath in Pete's
throat. After a moment he stepped back, and gave Clark a watery smile. "I kind
of think Whit would have liked this."
Clark nodded, and a little laughed bubbled up and broke free. "God! They're
still trying to rewrite him, poor bastard." He shouted up to the sky, "He was
gay, get over it already!"
Pete rubbed his eyes, and laughed with Clark.
Clark dropped to his knees and plucked a few stray weeds trying to grow up on
the grave. He stroked the white marble of the stone, and whispered, "I miss
you. But I don't need to come here to talk to you—you're everywhere I am,
you're part of me." He stood and dusted off his knees. "Pete, I love you for
this. Just the thought of me haunting those people—it's pretty darn funny. And
a fucking nice thing to do."
Pete laid his hand on his shoulder, squeezed lightly. "We better get back, Cee.
I know you still have chores to do." They walked on a bit in silence and then
Pete asked, "Say, if I help you do your chores, you think I might invite myself
to dinner?"
Clark laughed and pushed him a little. "Pete—you're always welcome at my house,
you know that. Mom and Dad wouldn't ever refuse you."
They were almost at the gate when Pete said, "Hey, you remember that friend of
Whit's, Fred? Graduated the same year—went into the Marines? He's here too. He
got killed in a training accident. That was fucked up, too—he was a good guy."
Shock pierced him through—so strong it made him stagger. Greif washed over him,
Fred didn't deserve that. Pete was right; he'd been a damn good guy. And he was
someone else he'd hurt just by knowing him—-because he'd cared for Clark.
"Oh shit, Cee, are you okay? I'm so sorry. That was a stupid way to tell you.
Sometimes I'm just a—a clod."
Clark nodded. He felt hurt. Hollow. He felt like…he needed Lex.
Pete grabbed his arm. "Clark Kent, listen. You've got friends in this town,
people who care, not just me and Chloe. Open up your eyes, your heart, and let
people in."
Clark shook his head, "People who love me die, Pete. Fred...Whitney…"
"I'm sorry, but that's stupid, Cee." Pete said, "What about me, Chloe, Lex…your
friends are here, and strong. Strong enough to lean on, strong enough to help
hold you up. All you have to do is…let us."
                                  [img-thing]
"Chloe's been looking into something she says is interesting, her and her new
best friend—Molly, Maggie? No. No I'm not jealous—no I'm not! It's good she has
friends who share her interests." Clark listened for a moment and started
laughing. "Oh, shut up! Chloe and I worked out those issues long ago—she was
the first—well, the second—person to know I was gay. Now who's jealous?" He
chuckled. "Let's change the subject, okay….guess what I'm wearing? No, I'm
serious. Really. Oh my god, you buzz-kill, just guess. Haven't you ever heard
of phone sex? There—yes, I'm wearing boxers, black ones, yes, silk…" Clark
stretched out on the couch in the loft, dressed in thread bare sweat pants and
an ancient paint smeared Smallville Crow's sweatshirt… "just boxers and a
smile, and I'm thinking of you, thinking of you hard…"
He fell asleep on the couch with a smile on his face.
 
This is a dream…I know it's a dream. I'm in the barn. I look up the loft stairs
and see a familiar face over the railing, it's my invisible playmate. I feel a
little jolt of surprise, why I don't know. Is he not supposed to be there? I go
up the stairs and no one's there when I get to the top. But something important
is waiting for me here. I look around, turning in circles but I'm not sure what
it is I'm supposed to find. Lex is sitting on the couch, and I'm thrilled—he's
home. He's smiling, so I know he was successful. A new home for the mutants—a
purpose in life.
He says," Every living being needs a purpose Clark." I wonder if he's developed
the power to read minds, I can feel the smile on my face. "Every being needs to
serve a greater purpose. I believe that we have a duty to bring light to the
world. I believe we can. But in order to achieve it, the world needs a leader
it can love, and trust. You are that leader. But first we have to find the
key."
I nod. What he says makes sense—except I'm not. I'm the partner, not the
leader. Lex and I will do it. We balance each other. I want to tell him that
but he's not there. A stranger, a little boy with dark messy curls and a big
smile is looking at me. Where did you come from little guy, I ask, and he just
smiles, a boy's smile and I notice he has the clearest ocean-green eyes. He
holds his hand out to me and gives me something that's warm on my palm, maybe
metal, maybe plastic and it's humming, buzzing… and he speaks, startling me—I
didn't think he could speak. He says, "It's yours Kal" and he's gone, leaving
me with the thing…it's buzzing, louder, louder, and I'm getting scared…
Clark woke up with a start—the alarm on the cell phone Lex had given him was
buzzing, and the phone was rotating on the slick surface of the old trunk. He'd
had the weirdest dream—he thought. It was oddly familiar but that was all he
had—that the dream was familiar, and he thought maybe Lex was in it—he
smiled—no surprise there, he'd been on his mind when he fell asleep. He felt a
tug in his gut, and ran the palm of his hand slowly down the front of his
sweatpants. He probably dreamed about sex with him…sex with Lex…he stiffened
slightly, and gave some thought to jerking off. Now, or should he go back into
the house and to his bed…? Clark checked the time, and saw that it was a little
after two in the AM. He yawned and stretched and suddenly a memory popped into
his head, him holding a piece of metal in his hand. Symbols were carved into
the piece. He heard his mother say "Whenever you want to talk, Clark, about
anything, you know we're here for you. Don't be afraid to talk to us son, we
love you." He saw himself wrap the metal piece up, and hide it in the rafters.
Remembered thinking he'd look at it, some other day when he felt braver.
Clark looked up, and concentrated his vision-he saw the wrapped bundle in a
basket in the rafters. He lay there for long minutes, thinking…thinking.
The time was close. The time was now.
                                  [img-thing]
He worked through his chores, thinking about the piece of odd metal shoved in
the back of his desk drawer, debated waiting until Lex came home, wondered if
he should tell Chloe, his parents…what would happen if he returned the piece of
metal to the ship? Was it a key? An instruction book? What if it opened and
he…changed form, from a human looking thing to a—a Thing? What if it told him
to take over the world—or god forbid—made him impregnate all the women with his
alien sperm?
"Ick." He shuddered, snorted at the image of himself running all over
Smallville, trying to talk the girls into having sex with him…him lying back
and thinking of—what—Alien Overlord and country? He snickered, until the
thought that it was a very real possibility sobered him, and sighed.
Maybe he was just over-thinking it. Maybe all that happened would be as simple
as an explanation why. Why his birthparents sent him away. Why he was the way
he was.
He trudged back to the house to shower, thought, ‘What if…what if nothing
happened?' What then?
Back in the house, he showered and held a shouted conversation through the door
with his sister, who demanded to know was he brushing his teeth—he had to open
the door and show her a mouth full of foam. She followed him down the hallway,
waited with philosophical resignation when the door was closed in her face. She
sighed, and he could see her resting against the door, kicking her heel on the
carpet as she continued the conversation they'd been having….
He dressed, let her in his room and then he had a lesson in how to brush his
hair. He was pretty darn thankful to be invulnerable. He was certain an average
human would have been knocked unconscious. He made her promise, in exchange for
pancakes, not to brush Mom or Dad's hair.
She thought that was pretty funny.
He made her heart-shaped pancakes, and dribbled syrup smiley faces across them.
She looked at him in wonder. "You are a good cook, Clark. Just like Mommy. Will
you make pancakes for Lex when he comes?"
"I'm sorry, kiddo, Lex isn't coming today."
Her face fell, and Clark wanted to hug her, he knew just how she felt. "I'm
going to marry Lex," she said. "He's so pretty."
"Really? You think so?" He grinned and put the mixing bowls and whisk in the
sink, wrapped up and set aside pancakes for his mom and dad. He made himself a
cup of coffee and turned back to Kala.
"Yes, when I'm all grown-up I will…you can marry him too, if you want. We can
all be married together." She narrowed her eyes in thought. "Mommy and Daddy
will have to get a new house. We'll need this one."
He choked a little, biting his lip hard to keep from laughing. Kala ignored his
frantic efforts not to laugh or choke—she was chewing pancakes serenely, every
inch the queen of the household. He poured a glass of milk for her, and kissed
the top of her head.
"I love you, you know that?"
She nodded. Of course he did.
                                  [img-thing]
They went out to the garden, and he spread a blanket on the grass, gave Kala
her coloring books and crayons. His mom waved at him from the lettuce, "Thanks,
hon. Did she eat?"
He nodded and walked over to where she stood on the garden path. He stopped and
just…looked at her until she laughed. "What is it? Do I have something on my
face?"
He shook his head. "No…I just want you to know that I really love you. And I'm
grateful you're my mom."
"Well! And I didn't even make breakfast," she said, and then stopped. "Clark…is
something bothering you?" She stepped forward, wiping her hand across the back
of one cheek, and smearing a little soil there.
"Nothing Mom, everything is fine—everything's great," he smiled, and wiped her
cheek, gave her a little kiss. "Everything's great, really."
                                  [img-thing]
"Dad?"
"Clark." His dad was staring into the guts of an old tractor, a look on his
face that promised mayhem if it didn't come back to life, and soon.
"Having fun?" Clark asked, and his dad scowled at him…and then laughed.
"Yes. Darn tractor."
Clark looked over on the work bench, and saw an open shipping box. "Ah, so the
parts came, good." He walked around the antique tractor, "What are you going to
do when they stop making parts for it anymore, Dad?"
His dad looked at him in shock. Clark had spoken sacrilege—"there will always
be parts for this make—it's a classic." He patted its bright red side.
"Besides, kids like seeing the same kind of tractor that's in their picture
books when they come pumpkin picking," he said with a fond smile. "I hate to
disappoint them…"
"Mmm, okay. Sure. I guess it's a good thing that Halloween's so far away then…"
"Don't humor me, mister," his dad groused. Clark grinned and headed for the
shed door, turned back, and grabbed his dad—hugged him hard and kissed him on
the cheek.
His dad raised eyebrows high in surprise. "Wow—what did I do to rate that?"
Clark grinned and said, "Be you."
                                  [img-thing]
Clark was in the cellar. It was dark and cool, but he was sweating. His hands
were damp and a little shaky, it took him a try or two before he could pull the
octagonal shaped metal piece from his pocket, and the phone Lex had given him.
He put them both on a shelf against the cellar wall and looked across the space
at the ship in the shadows.
He'd only looked at it once before, but he remembered vividly how it looked,
how it felt under his hand…worn, scarred by its journey through space...almost
alive. Clark stared at, working up the nerve to walk closer.
It felt like it was looking back…
He picked up the phone, put it down again, and walked around the ship,
clutching the piece of metal in his hand—it was warmer. In fact, as he walked
around the cellar, he could feel it heating up in his hand—it was actually
beginning to be uncomfortable to hold. He glanced towards the table, took a
step to the ship—and his phone rang. He snatched it from the table and whirled
around; put his back to the ship.
"Hello," he gasped into it.
"Clark—are you okay? You sound out of breath."
"Lex! Lex…hi. When are you coming home?"
"Right to the point, then. That's why I'm calling you—my trip was
successful—very. I'm finishing up arrangements and then I'll be home. I missed
you so much, Clark. I can't wait to see you."
"I know. It feels like I haven't seen you in years. There's something we have
to talk about when you get here, something important. I love you, Lex—I love
you more than anything in the world. Don't ever think I don't."
"Me too, sweetheart…are you sure you're okay? Clark?"
"I'm fine. Promise."
"Oka-ay, if you say so…Ah. I was going to wait until I got home to tell you
this but I think you need to hear it now. The tattoo—I had it removed."
"Oh, Lex. That's—that's wonderful news." Clark closed his eyes; he felt a part
of his spirit soar…he felt like a bit of himself had been freed. "That's really
good news, I'm glad you told me now."
"I love you Clark."
"See you when you get home, okay?" Clark hung up and slipped the phone into his
pocket. He popped the piece of metal up and down on his palm, and came to a
decision.
He wasn't doing anything yet. Not without Lex. He was not taking a major step
like this without his—his soul mate. He grinned, and blushed. God, it sounded
corny in his own head—but that's what Lex was to him, and he knew without a
doubt that Lex felt the same way.
He poked around the shelves looking for something to put the octagon in. There
were shelves of canned peaches, beans, tomatoes...there were empty bushel
baskets stacked on one shelf, and next to them, washed and empty coffee cans,
with their plastic lids intact…Mom really needed to learn how to relax, he
thought. One of the coffee cans would make a perfect holder for the octagon…he
grabbed a can—he could bury the thing under the ship….
He was a step away, and the metal started to heat again, rapidly becoming
uncomfortable—suddenly he was surrounded by a steadily escalating buzz of sound
that he wasn't sure was real or in his head—it got louder and louder. The metal
piece shifted and rocked in his hand and flew out—straight for the ship, flew
into an indentation shaped to fit it.
Clark stumbled and fell backward; the ship rocked and rose from the floor, dust
blowing from its sides. The pod sunk into the wedge shape was suddenly bisected
by glowing lines—or maybe the pod was opening along those lines and the light
was coming from inside—it was hard for him to see, his eyes were streaming from
the acid-bright glow. The edges of the wedge shapes lit up and looked like
running lights on a runway, the fins on the top and bottom edges glowed as
well. The ship tilted and turned towards him and this time, he was sure that it
was…seeing him.
He scooted away, his boot heels dragging furrows in the dirt floor of the root
cellar, a wind kicked up, blew dust and dirt up into the air—the light grew—the
ship tilted more, and focused on him—
Pain. The pain he felt was unbelievable—not even before being fixed had he felt
anything like this—the pain of being fixed was a pale echo of this. It was
like—being packed with glass shards from asshole to throat, the feeling grew to
fill his legs, his arms, fingers, toes—felt like having a crowbar hammered
between his joints and then the joints levered apart—
It grew and grew, and the entire time a voice shouted in his head, words
tumbled and shrieked in his head—louder and louder—"Stop!" Clark yelled it
again, "STOP!"
"I am…your father—"No!"—his will—"STOP IT"—his promise—"GET OUT"—guide you all
the days of your life…
"Kal-El, don't fight me…"
That suddenly, the pain stopped, like a door opening in his mind— Clark stepped
through and it was…the very opposite of what he'd been feeling. The very
opposite of pain filled him, lifted him, transformed him. The voice was
soothing now, a beacon, a flare of warmth that he went to instead of fought
against. He felt his eyes were closed—he opened them and….
I'm somewhere cold—standing on a rise, and I can see a plain that stretches all
around me forever. In the distance a city's towers rise up from the plain,
silver and white and sapphire against a pink sky and a red sun hangs overhead,
paints the patches of snow clinging to the grass pale pink as well.
I look at the city, the plain, hear the wind blowing through the stiff tall
blades of grass, feel it blow gently against my face and it carries strange
scents and sounds, strange and at the same time…familiar…"Krypton." And I
just—know. I know about Krypton, I know who I was before I was Clark Kent, I
know about Mother and Father…
"We are his memory, his will. We are to fulfill his promise and guide you all
the days
of your life. Last son of Krypton, you carry the hopes and dreams of your
people. They live through you now, Kal-El."
This is what the voice is saying in my head, and as I understand the words, I
understand also I'm not in a place, I'm in a time—and then again, I'm not
anywhere, and I'm on the floor of the cellar and I'm on a grassy field on
Krypton and I can't wake up—
The plain is swallowed in a bright white light, but this time, it's warm as a
mother's embrace…the voice says, ‘it's time, Kal-El. Time to learn—everything.'
And just like that, I'm not afraid anymore.
Brighter and brighter and brighter….I spread my arms like wings, let the light
pull me upwards, let it fill me, cover me….
I'll be back. I know I will. I have a destiny—we have a destiny, Lex and I. I
take a deep breath and jump into the light.
"Lex..."
 
We delight in the beauty of the butterfly, but rarely admit the changes it has
gone through to achieve that beauty. ~Maya Angelou
4-15-2007
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