Smallville
Butterfly
In retrospect, you wish you could say you did it out of altruism. Or at least something similarly noble, like compassion, or even something as basic as common sense and foresight.
But no, you’re not that lucky. Because in the beginning, you did it out of spite.
It’s a butterfly moment; the small, fragile flap that starts the storm. Clark is safe and alive and it’s you and Martha and somewhere outside of that a sea of shouting reporters in a furore too big for Smallville.
But not too big for a Luthor.
You look up — a momentary distraction from the warmth of your own family — and across a gulf wider than the one that delivered you your son. To something that seems a cold, vicious parody of your own embrace, and for a moment you catch steel-blue eyes flash with something not at all unlike longing.
It’s gone quickly, because if there’s one thing a Luthor knows, it’s how to hide emotion. But you’ve seen it, and in the second between then and now, you hatch The Plan.
Once upon a time, Lionel Luthor used your son against you. It occurs to you that it’s about time to return the favour.
It would never have worked if you and Clark hadn’t hashed over this argument a dozen times already.
“Lex isn’t his father,” Clark would say, and you would snort and roll your eyes and watch your son bristle with the injustice. “They don’t even like each other.”
As it turned out, Clark was right.
“Lex, son.” Lex turns, away from Lionel, his expression only unreadable by virtue of it showing too much; pride and loathing and confusion and panic. It occurs to you then in a way it never has before how young he is; only a scraping older than Clark, and somewhere in those years he’s learned to play at being an adult even if he doesn’t always know all the lyrics.
You say, “That was a brave thing you did in there. There aren’t many men who would’ve done the same.” You pointedly don’t look at Lionel, who watches you over Lex’s shoulder like a gargoyle; a grotesque, stony caricature of a man.
Lex just shrugs. “It was the right thing to do,” he says, and though the modesty is real enough, you can still feel the pleasure underneath.
“Even still, my family owes you a debt of gratitude, I think.” Lionel shifts, but as you’re still not looking at him you can’t tell how, exactly. Instead, you hold out your hand.
Lex doesn’t quite manage to hide the shock or the pleasure, and when you shake you know you’ve got him; hook, line and sinker.
“Thank you, Mr. Kent, that means a lot.” He’s trying to play it cool, and when you smile, you’re surprised to find it genuine.
“Just calling it like I see it,” you say, releasing his hand and turning to go. “Don’t be a stranger, now.”
Lex just nods, noncommittal in the face of Lionel, but his eyes flick up and he gives a small wave over your shoulder. You see Clark on the other end, looking in danger of losing the top of his head from the grin, and Martha beside him, eyes gleaming with quiet pride.
You leave Lex and Lionel and the reporters who’ve snapped up the whole scene, and walk back to your family, feeling like the biggest fraud in the universe.
“Clark, son, why don’t you invite Lex ‘round for dinner next Saturday? I’m sure you mother will get a kick out of cooking for someone new.”
Clark looks at you over the tractor, blinks once in obvious confusion, then gives you a blinding smile. “Really?” When you nod, he adds, “Awesome.”
Indeed.
Lex arrives at precisely 6 o’clock carrying a bottle of wine you’re fairly certain could pay off a large chunk of the farm’s mortgage. He seems oddly ashamed as he hands it over. “I wasn’t sure what we’d be having,” he offers by way of explanation, and for the first time it occurs to you that perhaps Lex doesn’t revel in the Luthor fortunes the way you’d expected him to.
Martha, always the peacemaker, says, “Fried chicken.”
“And pie!” Clark appears from upstairs, and you try not to notice the fact that he’s wearing one of his nicer shirts. A look of consternation crosses his face as he turns to Martha, “There’s pie, right mom?”
“Yes dear, there’s pie,” Martha teases, ruffling her son’s hair.
“Aw, mom, geeze—!” Not in front of Lex, Clark doesn’t say, but you hear it.
Dinner is surprisingly easy. You’re not quite sure what you expected, but Lex is both charming and deferential. He seems genuine in his praise of the food, in his interest in Clark and the farm, in his plans for the plant and for Smallville. He doesn’t leave that clamy feeling of oil and grit that Lionel always did, and not for the first time you think that Clark is right. It’s both relieving and horrifying in the way it plays right into your half thought out plans for revenge. Because Lex isn’t Lionel, in so many ways, and you get the sudden, sickening feeling that all he’s waiting for is someone to tell him.
It’s too easy.
Yesterday, Lex killed a man. He did it to save your life, and all you can think about is how you don’t deserve that kind of devotion.
But you’ve learnt some things about Lex, too, in the last few days. You’ve learnt that your first impressions of him weren’t as off as maybe you’d later thought, because Lex is definitely dangerous, even when he’s fighting hard not to be. Especially then.
He watches you intently from the other side of the pool table, wavering between defiant and shamed. You know, then, that he doesn’t regret what he did so much as how it turned out. Lex thinks in ends, not means, but today is a failure either way.
“Nixon was working for you.”
He looks away, shame winning out. “I told him to stay away from your family.” Lex, you’ve learnt, offers facts in lieu of excuses.
“You thought that would work, did you?” You’re surprised you’re not more angry than you are, but… but yesterday this boy became a murderer to save your life. That’s worth something, even if you’re not yet quite sure what.
“Yes.” Lex’s whole body is coiled, tense, like he’s waiting to be hit, and your anger does surface, then, but it’s aimed at Lionel. Lionel who you know, in that instant, taught his son exclusively through punishment and never forgiveness.
It almost makes you want to laugh, since it means you obviously know something Lionel doesn’t. Something very important.
You sigh heavily, letting your body sink down on the oddly uncomfortable black leather couch in the office. Lex watches you, distressed and wary, the circles under his eyes made all the darker for the grotesquely bruise-coloured light filtering in through the stained glass windows.
You know what you have to do now, but starting is still hard. “You hired Nixon to investigate Clark, didn’t you?”
“At first.” It seems very important to Lex you acknowledge the fact that he tried to call Nixon off, so you do. He seems to relax ever so slightly at your nod, even tries a few hesitant steps closer.
“Why?”
He stops. “I—”
“The truth, Lex.” You’re a father too, of course. And, once upon a time, you were even a son.
Lex just gives a dark huff of amusement. “The truth,” he says, “is exactly the problem.” You wait for him to continue, but you already know where this is going, even if Lex doesn’t seem to know how to say it. “I wanted to— Ever since that day on the bridge— and later, at Level 3— and I just—”
“Knew there was something special about Clark, even when he told you there wasn’t.”
Lex’s neck swivels towards you so fast you think you hear it snap. There’s definitely a silence in the room there wasn’t before, caused by the sudden absence of a heartbeat.
It’s not a stretch to force the gravity into your voice or your gaze. “Lex, Martha and I… Clark is everything to us, do you understand? Everything.” You wait for his shuddering nod before continuing. “We wished for a child, and we got one. And ever since then, we’ve lived every day with the fear that someone might come — someone who doesn’t know Clark, hasn’t seen what a good boy he is — they might come and try and take him away. For something that’s no fault of his own. Clark can’t help the way he is, and he doesn’t mean anyone any harm. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Lex sinks into an armchair with all the grace of a puppet with its strings cut. “Jesus,” he says. Then, just to add a little extra emphasis, “Fuck.” He bows his head and runs his hands across his skull in what you know is his quintessential stress-response. Lex never touches his head unless he’s upset.
“Lex,” you reach out and gently place a hand on his knee.
He jerks as if burnt, and you almost miss the hissed words, they’re so quiet. “I’m sorry.”
“I know,” you say, because this is the thing you have that Lionel doesn’t. The knowledge that forgiveness is often the cruelest punishment of all. You sit there for a while, offering absolution, while Lex shakes quietly against himself. He’s not crying, you know, and you wonder what it would take to elicit such a reaction, if even this isn’t enough.
Eventually, he lets out a shuttering breath and says, “I need a drink.”
You can’t help the small smile that curls around your mouth. “Normally, I’d lecture you on how you drink far too much for a boy your age, Lex.” You clap his gently on the shoulder, “But today, I think I’ll say, ‘Me too’ instead.”
He looks up at you warily, then offers a shaky smile before standing and walking over the the bar.
He comes back with two tumblers of something rich and honey-dark, and you swallow half of yours in one go, wincing at the smooth burn.
“Christ, what a day.”
Lex’s smile is dark as he sits down again, nursing his own drink, and for a while neither of you say anything.
Then, “I need to ask a favour.”
Lex’s answer is immediate and sincere, “Anything.”
You nod slowly, rolling the scotch around in your glass. “Clark… not many people know about Clark,” you say. “No-one, really. Just me and Martha. We’ve always taught him to be careful, not to reveal his… abilities to anyone. Sometimes we worry that it… makes it hard for him. Being different, having to lie, it puts a wall between him and the other kids.”
“I understand,” Lex says, and you know from the frightening hunger in his eyes that he does. From both sides.
The intensity of it almost makes you want to take the words back, but you’ve started now, so… “But now you know, some things, and… Clark values his friendship with you very highly”— that weird mix of pride and shame in Lex’s face again —“and as his father I’d like it if you could just… make it easy for him.”
It occurs to you that whatever Lex expected you to say, that wasn’t it. He looks confused, vacillating between hurt and pride.
“I mean just, be his friend. Ignore the… other stuff.” You watch as comprehension dawns on Lex’s face. “He’s starting to get to the age where he won’t want to keep coming to his mother or me to confide in, and I want him to have someone else to go to.”
Lex’s words are very, very careful. “Mr. Kent, I’m flattered, but I really don’t think I’d make the best role model for—”
It’s the wary refusal that cinches it. “I’m not asking you to be, Lex. Just be there. Listen. You know?”
Lex’s nod is very, very grave. “I’ll do my best.”
Hook. Line. Sinker.
Time passes. Things are good, for a while, then, “Lex won’t talk to me.” Clark’s expression would almost be comical if it weren’t for the very real hurt behind it.
You try and soothe your son’s pain but it’s hard when inside you’re seething. Farmer and the viper, indeed, and to think you’d spent all this time thinking you were the one in control.
The castle is no match for your fury, and you corner Lex in his office, demanding to know what’s going on. Martha always said your temper would be the end of you, and it looks like she was right (again, bless her) when Lex turns with a sneer and hands you a folder.
Suddenly, you realise that it’s not Lex who’s cornered, here.
“What—”
“To think I was almost convinced it was about me.” There’s a vicious, hollow quality to Lex’s voice you don’t like at all. “Almost believed the crap about not being my father, about being a good man, about being worthy. When all this time, all you wanted was revenge. To use me against my father in the way he used Clark against you.”
The folder in your hands holds Clark’s adoption records —amongst other things — and, Christ, but all you can think is, Lex knows.
In that moment, you realise that for all you pretend to be a good man — a good father — in truth, you’re worse than Lionel.
“Lex—”
“Get out.” The words are barely a hiss, laced with so much pain and venom you feel it as if it were you own, and you force yourself to look up, to look at Lex. He’s been drinking, you know, and you can almost convince yourself the shards on the floor besides the fireplace aren’t from a broken glass at all. When you don’t move, he all but shrieks, “I said get out.”
“No.”
The surety of your voice shocks Lex. Hell, it shocks you, too.
“Did Lionel give you this?” You gesture with the folder.
Lex hesitates, just slightly, before answering, and in that moment you know everything will be okay. He doesn’t want this to be true either.
He says, “Some of it.”
You nod. “He’s done this sort of thing before.” It’s not really a question, and Lex doesn’t treat it as such, instead continues to watch you with red-rimmed eyes. “Well, he’s not wrong.”
Lex makes a noise like he’s just been sucker-punched. “What—?”
You shrug. “Did he happen to tell you how we met?”
“No, I… I didn’t think to ask.” Lex narrows his eyes and you have to give the boy credit; when he’s not in pain he can smell a scam from a mile off.
“It was the day of the meteor shower,” you say and, Christ, but not even Clark knows this yet. “We nearly ran your father down on the road, not far from what was then the creamed corn factory. He was panicked, rambling. Martha stayed in the truck with Clark while I followed him into a field to see what he was so upset about.”
“Me.”
You nod. “Flattened corn as far as the eye could see, and one little boy. We took you and Lionel to the hospital in the truck. Clark was quite taken with you, even then.” You can’t quite help the smile that curves your lips at the memory, and neither, apparently, can Lex. “After that day, Lionel came to the farm. Said we’d saved your life and wanted to know if he could do anything in return. We would never have taken him up on the offer, but…” You nod at the folder.
“Clark.” Lex sounds almost… awe-struck. It’s an odd reaction, but Lex is full of those.
“We found him in a field, Lex. We knew he had no parents, but a legal adoption would’ve been… too risky. Too many questions. Doctors.”
Lex nods slowly, awareness having replaced anger. “So you let Dad do it, thinking you’d be square for helping him after the meteorite shower.”
“Right.”
“But then he came to collect. He used the threat of exposing the phoney adoption to get you to help him set up LuthorCorp in Smallville.”
“A lot of good people were destroyed.” You don’t add that it was your fault. Lex hears it anyway, and nods when you say, “I did it to protect Clark.”
Lex looks away, breathing heavily, and you know from the intensity of his expression that’s he’s coming to a decision. “All right,” he says eventually. “Use me.”
You can’t have heard that right. “What?”
“Against my father, whatever you’ve got planned, I’ll—”
“Jesus Christ Lex no!” You can’t listen to this, and without really thinking about it you’ve grabbed him by the upper arms. He looks at you, defiant and afraid, and you wonder if Lex always feels everything in binary. “Listen to me, Lex. I might have had some fool notion of using you against your father at first — not my proudest moment, and I won’t deny it — but you are not some… some pawn in a war between me and Lionel. For God’s sake, Lex, Martha adores you and Clark”— Christ, awkward —“Clark wants to be you.” That’s close enough, and Lex is looking shattered again, so you let him go gently. “You’re part of this family now whether Lionel likes it or not.”
“I—” Lex is speechless, happy in spite of himself, and you realise that you said the magic word without meaning to: family. Oddly, you don’t regret it.
“I don’t know what to say,” Lex finally admits, and you grin.
“Say you’ll come ‘round tonight. Clark misses you.”
At the mention of Clark’s name, Lex baulks a little. “Clark… what do I tell him about…” he makes a vague gesture.
You shrug. “Whatever you want, son. I trust you.”
And, today is a day of wonders, because it’s true. You do.
Three months later, Clark comes to see you. “Dad, I’ve been thinking.”
“Uh-oh, this can’t be good,” you joke, smiling at your nervous son over the back of one of the new cows.
Clark gives you a half-hearted smile in return, then blurts, “I want to tell Lex the truth. About me.” Your shock must show quite clearly on your face, because he hurries on, “I know you always said I have to be careful but I’ve thought about it lots and I think that Lex deserves to know because, like, he’s been a really good friend and I know he was investigating me that time but he doesn’t even ask anymore when I do stuff when he’s nearby and I think he already knows some stuff but I want to—”
“Woah woah woah there son.” You hold up your hands in an effort to fend off the verbal torrent. This was not the revelation you’d been dreading this conversation to hold. “You’re asking my permission to tell Lex about your… origins?”
Clark nods, shoulders hunched and ready for rejection. You wonder, just for a moment, what he’d do if you said no. Not so long ago, you used to be able to read Clark like you do the soil and the herd, but lately… he’s growing up.
It’s moot, anyway, because, “Clark, son… your mother and I thought you’d done that months ago!”
Clark blinks. “Oh,” he says.
Yeah. Oh.
Two weeks later, you see Lex out in the back field with a stopwatch and a clipboard, timing as Clark does super-fast laps just inside the fence.
The good times don’t last. Closing the door on your grieving son wasn’t exactly your proudest moment, but, well, you were grieving too. Everyone makes mistakes. You lost two children that day and with Lex gone as well the house feels hollow. So does Martha, and your heart aches for a long time after the accident when she refuses to meet your eyes.
You heal, but slowly, and the missing pieces of your life feel like wounds that will never scar.
It takes a month for Martha to tentatively suggest you start looking for Clark, and suddenly you feel like the biggest fool on the planet.
All this time, you thought she was grieving for the baby.
You’re dialling Lex’s number before you’ve really realised what you’re doing, but it’s a logical conclusion. Lex has power and connections and if anyone can find Clark, he can.
It’s only when he doesn’t answer or return your calls that you realise that you’ve been so caught up in your own pain that you hadn’t even noticed that Lex hasn’t been to the farm in weeks. As far as you’re aware, he hasn’t even been in Smallville.
The realisation has you sitting on the table in the kitchen for a long time, forgotten phone in one hand, feeling like the worst father in the universe.
Six weeks later, you hear the purr of an engine in the driveway over breakfast. Martha shoots you a look filled with such hope that you practically hit the ceiling as you leap from your chair. She follows suit, and you both almost get stuck in the door in your efforts to get outside.
To see one of Lex’s cars pull up into the drive.
Martha puts her hands over her mouth and starts to sob and you wrap an arm around her shoulder on instinct. Everything is still for a painful moment, then—
You son steps out of the car. Head down, shoulders hunched; as shamed as you’ve ever seen him. But he’s here and he’s back and, oh God, your hearts breaks with the thought of what you almost lost. You want nothing more to run to him — to hold him and make sure he’s real — but for a moment your attention is drawn not to him, but to the car’s second occupant; standing behind the driver’s side door, watching Martha embrace Clark with a kind of grave pride.
Lex’s eyes flick to yours and you nod, just once, and he returns the gesture.
Three weeks later, Lex asks you and Martha for a favour. You’re shocked, of course, when he explains what he wants and terrified when he explains why.
After you’ve finished signing, you just look at each other across the large glass desk in Lex’s office.
“So,” you say finally. “It’s time.”
Lionel doesn’t make his move for a long time after that, but when he finally does, it’s decisive.
Clark is nearly hysterical; torn somewhere between fear and grief and guilt and it takes everything you’ve got to calm him down enough to stop him going after Lex.
“Son, please,” you say, half-listening to Martha make the necessary phone calls behind you. She has law in the blood, and right now it’s showing. “Lex was prepared for something like this. It’ll be okay.”
Clark blinks at you, uncomprehending. You love you son and he’s brilliant in so many ways… but not this one. Lex is the planner, not Clark, who tends to prefer a more direct approach to life. The dynamic sort of reminds you of yourself and Martha until, okay, not ready to go there. Not right now.
Right now, it’s time for coats and the sleek leather folio you brought back from Lex’s, all those weeks ago. A part of you idly wonders why Lex still insists on living in the castle, though the rest of you suspects it’s because he loves the overblown drama of it all even more than Lionel does. Not that he’ll even admit it. It used to bother you — in the way everything Luthor used to bother you — but since then you’ve seen Lex do everything from cut cookies into stars with a streak of flour across his cheek to bale hay rugged up in Clark’s hand-me-down flannel. Because Lex applies himself with the same ruthless dedication to everything in his life — from business to family — and that kind of meticulous eccentricity deserves a castle in the corn.
Lex isn’t like normal people, but then again neither is Clark, and that’s hardly a bad thing. Even if it has taken you a little longer than it perhaps should have to realise it.
By the time you get to Belle Reve, Lionel is waiting.
“—son is sick, and I demand that he be admitted to care immediately!”
To her credit, the nurse at the front desk doesn’t even blink. “I’m sorry, Mr. Luthor, but the injunction is binding. We cannot admit your son without proper authorisation from his recognised legal guardians.”
“For god’s sake I’m his father!”
“Only in blood.” The words feel good. Maybe too good, but you meet Lionel’s stare easily. He doesn’t look surprised to see you, but hides his sneer when he sees who’s by your side.
“Martha? What’s going on?”
You aren’t normally a jealous man, but there’s something about—
“I’m sorry, Lionel, but if you’d excuse me.” You watch with a vicious sort of glee as Martha manoeuvres easily past Lionel and presents the folder to the nurse. She smilies warmly, and your heart melts just a little. “I’m Martha Kent, and this is my husband, Jonathan. We’re Lex Luthor’s nominated attorneys-in-fact; all the relevant documents are in here.” She pats the folder.
The nurse gives her a tight smile as she flicks through the folders. “Yes, Mrs. Kent. Mr. Luthor’s lawyers left word with the hospital to expect you. They suggested you’d like to have Mr. Luthor transferred to Metropolis General rather than admitted to Belle Reve?”
“Yes, I’m terribly sorry about all this. I’m afraid there’s been an awful mix-up…” If there’s one thing you can say about your wife, it’s that she can do a damn fine hand-wringing when she wants to.
The nurse nods. “I understand, Mrs. Kent.” As if this sort of thing happens every day. Hell, for all you know, it does. “We’ll organise the transfer immediately.”
“Oh, thank you dear. My family was also wondering, we’re all very worried and we’d appreciate it a great deal if we could see Lex?” What a woman.
The nurse looks hesitant. “Mr. Luthor is sedated…” Clark shoots you an anxious look but you calm him with a squeeze on the shoulder.
Martha does a great job of maternal disappointment, “Oh. It’s just that we bought these flowers for when he wakes up.”— so that’s what the bouquet is for —“From my garden, and it’s just the poor boy’s been through such stress recently and he did always say they were his favourite…”
Lionel nothing. Martha, you decide, is the real evil genius in the room. The nurse flicks her eyes between you all for a while, before eventually saying, “One of you may come through, and only to deliver the flowers.”
“I’ll go!” Clark immediately volunteers, and Lionel’s protests are silenced by a beaming smile from Martha.
“Oh Clark honey, would you? I know it would mean a lot to Lex to know you’d visited him. We’ll all just wait out here until the FBI arrive.”
Lionel almost chokes. “The wh— I’m sorry, did you say FBI?”
Clark takes the flowers and disappears after the nurse, barely able to conceal his grin, while Martha says, “Of course Lionel. Lex was worried something like this would happen. He’s been working with someone in the Bureau for a few months now — something about organised crime having business links in Metropolis — and they warned him something like this might happen.”
Lionel goes very pale, then manages to choke out, “He— he never mentioned any of this to me.”
“Well, it’s a very sensitive investigation,” Martha soothes. “I have to admit we only got involved by accident.”
“Accident,” says Lionel flatly. He recovers himself quickly with, “Martha, I’m so sorry your family has been caught up in all this. Lex can be—”
“It’s no trouble.” Quite frankly, you don’t want to hear the end of that sentence. Don’t want to know how Lionel thinks he can make this all Lex’s fault. “Lex has been a very good friend to Clark these past few years. He’s practically family”— Martha, oddly, beams at you —“and Kents look after their family.” The implication, of course, is obvious to everyone in a pink-elephant-in-the-corner sort of way.
Lionel looks like he wants to say something vicious, but in front of Martha all he can manage is, “That’s very… generous of you.”
You just smile, and then the door bursts open and suddenly you’re surrounded by more feds and lawyers than you’ve ever wanted to see in your whole life.
When Lex wakes up, Martha and Clark have gone out for coffee, so it’s just you and the uncomfortable plastic chairs.
You know he’s awake when he starts to shudder violently, thrashing against the straps the doctors insisted upon. For exactly this reaction, you suppose — though you don’t have to like it — and you reach forward instinctively, taking one of his clawing hands in your own.
“Lex, son, it’s okay. Listen to me.”
He turns to look at you with wild eyes, one pupil blow wide and the other barely a pinprick, and makes a noise that might be your name.
“You’re in the hospital, Lex,” you say, keeping your voice calm and fatherly as you explain what you know. You’re not sure Lex is really together enough to understand you — the doctors said he’d be quite addicted to whatever cocktail he’s been drugged with, and the withdrawal would probably be the worst part — but he seems to calm down anyway.
Eventually, Martha and Clark return with coffee and suddenly Lex doesn’t have enough hands for the number of people who want to hold one. So you relinquish yours to Clark, and lean back in your chair, watching your family.
“It’s okay Lex,” Clark says. “We’re here now. You can rest.”
Lionel looks strange sans hair. But you suppose it makes sense; those coifed locks may look impressive on the outside, but in prison they’re just an invitation.
The scandal ruins LuthorCorp. You never had a head for business — that’s Martha’s job — but from what you understand Lex salvages the parts he wants, rolling them up into his own company, and sells off the rest. The break-up of Lionel’s personal assets skyrockets Lex overnight into being one of the wealthiest people in the world (“Top twenty,” he tells you sheepishly), with LexCorp breaking the Fortune 100.
The Mayor of Metropolis throws a party in celebration, and A-listers and glitterati from all over the world attend.
Lex doesn’t. He tells you the farm is better than the coatroom, and not just because it has Martha’s pie.
The next day, The Daily Planet’s front page is all about Lex skipping out on his multimillion dollar back-slapping session in favour of a “quiet dinner with family friends”. In response, LexCorp stocks go up.
When you ask Lex about it, he just smiles slyly and shrugs.
Three weeks before Clark’s eighteenth birthday, you finally end up having The Talk. You’ve had years to prepare yourself, so when Clark finally blurts, “DadIthinkI’mgay,” over the engine block one morning, you pride yourself on the smooth way you say:
“Okay. Son, could you hold the light a little lower for me.” Lex keeps threatening to buy you a new tractor for Christmas. You’ve told him that any such attempts will result in him receiving a new hat every birthday for the rest of his life.
“Oh, um sure.” Clark lowers the light obediently, fidgets for a while, then asks, “You did… did hear me, right?”
“You’re gay,” you repeat dutifully.
“Oh. And… that’s okay?”
You look up, raising an incredulous eyebrow. “Shouldn’t it be?”
“Uh, no! Yes! I mean, it’s just…” This is not how I expected this conversation to go, your mind fills in.
You give your son a reassuring smile. “Clark, the only thing your mother and I want is for you to be happy.”
Your son actually frowns at that. “That’s what mom said you’d say.”
“She’s a wise woman. Hand me the oil will you?”
He does so, and says, “This isn’t just, you know,” he waves his hand around in the air. “There’s someone.”
“Oh? When do your mother and I get to meet him?” And, okay, now you’re just being kinda cruel, especially with the way Clark goes completely scarlet.
“It’s not like that,” he stammers. “I mean, it’s… I like him. Like, a lot, but we’re not— I mean we haven’t… And I don’t even know if he feels the same way about me, But… I want to find out, you know. And I thought I should let you and mom know beforehand just so you’re not… surprised. If something happens. Because I want it to… even if… even if I don’t think I’ve really got much of a chance,” he finishes quietly.
You straighten up, making yourself really look at your son in a way you don’t often do. He meets your eyes hesitantly, looking shy and self-depreciating. You know that’s your fault. You son is beautiful — it’s not something you think often, but you know it in an intellectual sense — and brilliant and, hell, has the abilities of a god. Yet despite all that, he’s somehow managed to grow up without a lick of self-confidence. You figure fifteen years of warnings not to stand out, not to draw attention to himself or excel in any way, will do that to a kid. You’ve no-one to blame but yourself. It all seemed so necessary at the time, but in retrospect…
Well, you can’t change the past, but you can do something about the present, so you say, “Clark, son, listen to me. Lex… feels very strongly about you”— in a way that is, okay, kinda scary —“but he’s also a fair bit older and more… jaded—”
“Dad!”
“No, son, let me finish. Like I said, he values your friendship more than anything else, I think, and he… I think he’s waiting.”
That, apparently, is enough to make Clark forget he’s supposed to be denying your guess of his mystery beau. “Waiting?”
“For you.”
It takes him a while to get it, but when he does Clark’s mouth goes slack with shock. “You— you think he— Why would Lex—? He dates supermodels,” he finally manages.
You chuckle ruefully. “‘Dates’ isn’t quite the word I’d use.”
“Dad!”
“Clark,” you put a hand on your son’s shoulder, suddenly grave. “Look, son, you mother and I trust you. Don’t feel you have to rush into anything with Lex, okay? Spend some time together as friends, make sure he knows how important he is to you. If things are destined to happen, they’ll happen.” And, okay, this is probably about the weirdest conversation you’ve ever had with your son — and you’ve had some hair-curlers — but dating a guy can’t be that much different, right?
Clark seems to take your advice seriously, because he nods. “Destiny,” he repeats slowly, before breaking into a huge smile. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, dad.”
“Anytime, son. Now, how about helping me lift this thing back into the tractor?”
Once upon a time, you son came to you and said, “Dad, there’s a prophecy in the Kawatche caves saying Lex is destined to be my enemy.”
He looked so distressed, and you said, “What does Lex think about this?” At your son’s shrug you added, “Son, I think you should be talking about this with Lex. I’m sure he’d want some input into these so-called ‘prophecies’ if they really do involve him, don’t you think?”
That was last you heard about it.
A month after Clark’s eighteenth birthday, Lex comes to see you. Clark’s still at school, and from the grim but sheepish expression on Lex’s face, you know what this is about. The boy’s already bracing himself for rejection.
So you smile when you see him and wave him over. “Lex, son, come over here and give me a hand with this, will you?”
Sometimes you wonder how you would’ve done, being Lex’s father full-time rather than the tenuous, unspoken relationship you currently have. There’s no trace of the spoilt, doped-up hellion you’ve read about in the quiet, thoughtful man who uncomplainingly helps you re-seat a fence post despite his thousand dollar shoes and Italian wool coat worth more than your truck. You know it’s an act, of sorts; Lex is exceptional at affecting meekness, but you’ve seen the wolf that lurks beneath.
Once you’re done, you dust off your hands and say, “Martha’s making soup if you want to stay for lunch. Fresh bread.” You never, ever ask Lex what he wants any more; never make him feel that he needs a reason to visit, even though he almost always brings one.
Like now. “Actually, I was wondering if I could have a word. It’s about Clark.”
“Okay,” you say, and start packing you tools back into the truck. Lex helps with that, too.
“There’s no easy way for me to say this,” he starts. “I… care for Clark very deeply. I suppose he’s the first real friend I’ve ever had, and I’m loathe to do anything that might jeopardise that fact but…” Lex puts the mallet he’s holding down into the bed of the truck and looks at you seriously. “Recently it’s become apparent that Clark might be receptive to… more than just friendship. With me,” he clarifies, when you don’t immediately pound him into the dirt for looking at your son. You try not to take the assumption personally. After all, this is Kansas; it’s not exactly unreasonable.
“And that’s something you want too?” you ask.
Lex, you can see, is terrified, but faces you down in the way he does every threat. “Yes,” he states simply.
You nod, feeling oddly like you’ve fallen into some bizarre 19th century English drama. “Just promise you’ll be careful.”
Lex’s eyebrows — and why does he have those; you make a note to ask Clark one day — go up at your easy acquiescence. “Jonathan, I’d be naïve to think my reputation hasn’t followed me out here, but I swear to you I’d never do—”
You hold up your hand to cut off Lex’s assurances. “Lex, son,” you say. “I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about…” How to put this? “Clark has a tendency to be… not so delicate with relationships.” Now there’s an understatement.
Lex’s eyebrows are making a valiant effort to scale across to the other side of his head. He blinks at you, uncomprehending, for a moment before visibly calming himself and saying, “I know. But I trust Clark.”
You smile, clap Lex on the shoulder. “Well then,” you say. “What are you waiting for?”
Clark is ecstatic for all of about three weeks, before coming down with a funk so hard you find yourself on the lookout for new and dangerous colours of kryptonite to add to Lex’s closely-guarded collection. It takes Martha to draw the full story out of the boy over dinner one night, which — as far as you can tell — is some long, convoluted tale involving fancy parties and women in slinky dresses.
“—Feel like such a hick, mom. It’s like, I dunno, like he’s trying to tell me I’m not… not good enough for him any more or something.” Clark trails off, gazing mournfully into his mashed potatoes like they hold the secret to all relationship woes.
You catch Martha’s eye across the table, and can see that she’s trying very hard not to laugh at her poor, woebegone son. It’s a bit like that, really.
“Clark, honey,” she says gently. “Did you think that maybe Lex is trying to impress you?”
Clark looks up at her sharply, wrinkling his nose in an expression that is so Lana-like you’re the one stifling laughter. “What?”
“Lex likes you a great deal,” she says, as if such a thing is self-evident (which, of course, is it… though perhaps not to Clark). “I think he’s trying to make you feel special in the only way he knows how. These parties and galas he’s taking you to; most people would be falling over themselves to get invites.”
Clark frowns, pokes at his peas. “This is a… a money thing, isn’t it?” he asks eventually. “I thought… that’s not why I like him. Because he has fancy cars and meets super-cool people and owns, like, the biggest TV in the universe. He’d still totally be like my best friend even if he didn’t have any of that.”
You think back to not so long ago, when Lex didn’t have any of that — if only for a little while — and something inside you rears in pride.
“We know that, son,” you say. “But you have to realise, you’ve almost always dealt with Lex on your terms; here at the farm or at the Talon or at the castle when it’s just the two of you. But Lex, he has a whole other life. He’s one of the world’s richest people, Clark.”
“I don’t care about that,” Clark insists, vehement and slighted at the suggestion.
“But you have to accept it,” Martha says. “That’s what being in a relationship with Lex would be like.”
Clark says something that sounds an awful lot like, “Mmm,” and continues to poke at his food.
By the time you’re clearing the plates, your son is still deep in thought.
About six months later, a photo of Lex and Clark appears in the Planet’s society pages. They’re holding hands.
It’s not a surprise — Lex’s publicist filled you in days ago — and neither is the accompanying story. Clark is the Next In Thing for about two weeks, and you barely recognise the strong, confident young man in suits and upper-class casual. Lex’s stylist is having a field day, but the clothes are a costume and whenever Clark’s away from the cameras, he falls easily back into faded Smallville High t-shirts and plaid. Some of those end up in the papers, too.
The rumours about your son and the resident bad-boy billionaire start off as wistful tales of friendship blooming into true love, then turn nasty with speculation on betrayals and darker things, before gradually stuttering out when no-one turns up murdered.
Life rolls on.
The boys come home for Christmas. You’d like to say it’s been lonely without them but, well, it’s actually been kind of… nice. Quiet. Just you and Martha and you think that maybe makes you a bad parent. Until you see you son again, fifteen feet above the driveway and lowering, one arm full of suitcases and the other full of Lex.
The air is crisp and clear and the sun is bright and, Christ. Clark looks like a god.
Martha’s hand tightens on your arm with a gasp, and you return the gesture.
“That’s new,” you say when Clark and Lex are both on the ground.
Your son, still your son, goes scarlet. “I told Lex we should’ve driven, but—”
“Nonsense,” Lex interjects with the resolute surety of someone who’s won this argument before. “You’ll never master your powers if you don’t practice. Martha, Jonathan, it’s been too long.” When Lex shakes your hand you try not to notice that he’s trembling. A small voice in the back of your head reminds you he’s afraid of heights.
Then again, so is Clark.
Lex once told you that he never got to decorate Christmas trees when he was a child.
“It was always something professionals did,” he’d said, watching Clark apply tinsel like it was some kind of fascinating but quaint local ritual.
“In this family,” you’d told him, “We are the professionals.”
Later — when the presents have been opened and the turkey picked clean — you pull yourself dozily out of Martha’s arms. This is still a farm, after all, and you still have things to do before you sleep. Cows don’t understand Christmas.
You pad downstairs quietly and soft voices make you pause at the bottom.
“—’s Kryptonian.” That’s Clark, voice low and serious.
Lex sounds thoughtful. “Mmm. I suppose it’s possible, given what you’ve described. Alien at the very least. You said he seems to want to help?”
“I guess so, he’s friendly enough, but…”
“But?”
“I dunno how to describe it, exactly. It’s nothing he’s said or done but he just kind of makes me feel… uneasy. Plus, he kept talking about Naman and Sageeth. I think he was trying to hint that you were, you know… evil.”
“Ah, a Luthor detractor. How novel.” You can’t help wincing a little at the dry pain in Lex’s voice. At Clark’s soft noise of protest, he continues. “Clark, I’d adamantly refuse to believe that a hyper-advanced, scientifically-minded, space-faring race relies on things like prophecy and oral tradition. The entire notion is just absurd.”
“I know, but the Starblade—”
“Was a very real, tangible alien artefact whose true purpose is not known to us. Clark, if you’re going to tie yourself up in knots about this, the least you could do is ask—”
“No! Lex, I told you I’m not going back to talk to that thing. Every time it shows up, someone I love gets hurt.”
Lex sighs, says, “I know,” with the resolute surety of someone who will win this argument, one day. There’s quiet for a while, then, “It’ll work out, Clark. We’ll make it work.”
There are more sounds, soft and muffled and just as you think you perhaps need to go back upstairs, they fade. So you make you choice, and continue down.
Through the door frame you see Clark, sitting on the sofa and bathed in the pale glow of the muted TV. Lex is on the floor between his legs, eyes closed and expression blissful as Clark uses one hand to stroke his exposed throat and the other to trace across his pale scalp. They’re the picture of calm, easy companionship.
So you nod to your son as you pass the den, and he acknowledges you with a bright, cheerful smile. If you hadn’t been eavesdropping, you’d never know anything was wrong. It maybe should bother you, but somehow it doesn’t. Because Clark is a man now, and he’s found his own heart to confide in, just like you once found Martha.
You know, then, as you pull on your boots, that your son is destined for greatness. The thought doesn’t scare you in the way it used to; doesn’t scare you in the way it scares Clark when he thinks about his alien “father’s” plans. Clark will never rule the world — for one thing, Lex won’t let him — but he’s destined for more than farming all the same.
Christ, the boy can fly.
And you? Your part in this story, you think, is mostly over. You’ve done your best — made some good choices and some bad ones — but your wife is proud of you and your son is happy. You’re not a greedy man, and that’s more than enough.
Outside, it’s cold and calm and still.
You hear the door behind you, and you turn to see Clark has followed you out. Boots on and ready to work.
He nods at the sky. “Figured I’d help out. Looks like a storm coming.”
“Always is,” you say. “But it’s not here yet.”