It took three shampoos, four brushings of his teeth, and multiple scrubbings and he could still smell it. It was as if it was in the air around him. He just couldn't shake it. He stepped out of the shower, toweling off as he moved to the sink. It actually felt like it was getting even stronger with each step. How was that even possible?
He stopped, staring at his sweats on the floor. Or it might be those.
He picked them up figuring he'd take them out to the yard and burn them when his watch fell out. It had been two hours. He stared at the face, wondering if that could possibly be right. But it must be. He was just moving a little slower tonight. Maybe multiple falls from a helicopter would do that -- even to him. He ran his hand over the glass, wiping off some steam. He wondered if he should stop wearing it when training or saving. He didn't want to get it broken. It had been his Dad's.
But that was just why he needed it. He needed that piece of his Dad with him to remind him that he wasn't just Kryptonian, he was a man. He put it on before anything else, thinking of Jonathon Kent -- and then of Morgan Hunter and how the decision to save her life led him to this smelly situation.
But he wouldn't trade it. And that was because of Jonathon Kent. As he dressed, his mind drifted to that late afternoon in the fruit cellar, after meeting Virgil Swann.
Ever since you told me about this ship, I wondered if there were others out there like me. Now I know there's not. I'm totally alone.
Clark, you are never alone, son. This is your home, and we love you very much.
He always knew what to say. Clark just wished he'd appreciated that more at the time.
On this third planet from this star Sol, you will be a god among men. They are a flawed race. Rule them with strength, my son. That is where your greatness lies.
He'd been horrified to read it. Again, his father knew just what to say.
Maybe you did misread it, Clark. But even if you didn't, it's you who decides what kind of a life you're gonna lead. Not me, not your mother, not your... biological parents.
What if it's part of who I am? Is that the kind of person I will become?
Clark Kent, you're here to be a force for good, not a force of evil.
He hadn't had faith in those words at the time. He spent so many years running away from Jor-El to avoid becoming that force of evil or, at the least, a very detached and disinterested force for good.
But he had misread the words. He heard them again, years later as he trained, in plain English.
Live as one of them, Kal-El, to discover where your strength and your power are needed. Always hold in your heart the pride of your special heritage. They can be a great people, Kal-El, they wish to be. They only lack the light to show the way. For this reason above all, their capacity for good, I have sent them you... my only son.
He rather wished Jor-El had made this clear much earlier. He might not have wasted so much time running. Jor-El may be the man who brought him into the world, but he didn't have Jonathon Kent's way of telling him what he really needed to hear. He thought of Jor-El whenever he used the gifts passed down through him. But he thought of Jonathon Kent whenever he looked into the eyes of the people he saved.
There was a balance in his fathers.
Jor-El, or the simulation of him might find saving one person at the expense of his well-being an unnecessary risk when there might be a greater things at stake. But he knew that Jonathon Kent and all he'd raised him with made that risk necessary.
Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.
It was some bible verse or other. The Kents weren't ever-present at church in his younger years, but they often wanted to be and, in fits of guilt on those times when they got caught up with the farmers' market and missed, his Dad sometimes thought they should contemplate something Godly to make up for it. He'd open up the old Kent Bible, signed for a hundred years by every Kent that was born, and read a verse.
Clark usually liked the ones that were more like stories. The Old Testament or accounts of Jesus or the parables. They weren't all excitement, but they had people going places and doing things... and in ancient times. That made them, at least, kind of interesting. The more thinky ones didn't really keep his attention or stick with him. But this one did. Mostly because his Dad closed the book after reading it.
"Oh, good." Clark got up to go to the bathroom.
"We're not done." His Dad leaned forward. "What does that mean?"
Clark dug deep into what he'd learned at Sunday School, when he went, that is. "Um... Jesus died for everybody and that's... really nice of him?"
He shook his head. "It's Jesus speaking. He hasn't died yet."
"Well, then... maybe he's talking about cops."
He tilted his head. "Cops?"
"Well, cops go to work and they could die and they... they might not even be friends with people they're saving, but they save them anyway. So that's, like, a greater love, too." Clark nodded to himself. It made sense.
Jonathon chuckled slightly. "I don't think they had cops back then, at least not the nice kind. See, the Romans were oppressing the Jews and..."
"Jonathon," Marta groaned. "Don't turn this into a long speech. I think Clark gets it."
He smiled. His father might have a way with words, but he sometimes had too many of them. His mother, in her own way, also knew just what to say. Though there were times when he didn't like it. This wasn't one of those times...
She'd moved to Clark and held up a pair of pants she was letting down... again. She did a lot of that back then, since he was "growing like a weed." She smiled at Clark. "Jesus may be telling his disciples about loving each other, but our boy is taking it one step further and saying we should lay down our lives for anyone we can save, even strangers. What a lovely thought."
"Yeah?" Clark grinned. "It just kinda came to me."
She ruffled his hair. "You're just too noble."
Jonathon smiled at the both of them. "That's our boy."
And he was. Wherever he'd come from, whatever he could do, whenever he tried to think of what he should do, he couldn't stop being their boy.
Jor-El may have had a plan for me. But it was you and Dad, what you taught me, that makes me want to follow it.
It seemed so long ago that he'd said those words to his mother in a safe house in Winnipeg, but they still rang true. Maybe saving Morgan had caused all this work now, but he'd do it again. Because he was their boy.
He zipped up the worn jeans with some trouble. They were definitely old and a little too tight, but he wasn't going to search around for something else. He'd better get downstairs for the talk. He figured he was in for more of a speech, from what his mother had said earlier, but he could take it. He almost welcomed it. He'd been floundering all week and his mom always had a way of setting him to rights.
He picked up the faded blue T-shirt and pulled it over his head... or tried. He held it up. It was even older than the jeans. He hadn't worn this one since eighth grade. It even had his name in sharpie on the tag from those days before he made his mom stop doing that.
He tossed it over his shoulder and grabbed the pile of dirty sweats. The house seemed dark and empty as he moved to the front door and dropped his soiled clothes on the porch to burn later. Everyone must have gone. There was a light in the kitchen and he followed it.
"Hey, Mom? Do you have anything bigger because this shirt..." There was a gasp as he reached the doorway and Lois whirled around, a pot slipping from her hand. He rushed forward and slid to catch the pot before it hit the floor. "You're not Mom," he said lamely, looking up.
Lois stared down. "You're not wearing a shirt," she said slowly.
He straightened and held out the pot to her, taking the shirt from his shoulder and pulling at it like a fidgety kid. "I would, but this one's a little small."
She looked down. "So are your pants."
He gave a nervous laugh. "They're on, at least."
"Uh-huh."
It got really quiet. He could hear tiny dings and looked down. Droplets were hitting the pot hanging from her hand. Droplets from her shirt. Her very wet shirt. His eyes traveled upwards, but he stopped them, stepping back and looking up. "I was just going to talk to my mom," he announced loudly, maybe too loudly.
"Shhh!" Her eyes hastily met his. "Be quiet," she hissed. "You'll wake her." She looked down one last time, then quickly turned away.
"She's sleeping?" he asked. "It can't be past nine."
"She passed out on the couch just a little bit ago." She dunked her hands in the water and pulled out a plate.
He looked worriedly through the wall and saw her on the couch with an afghan over her. "Is she okay?" He'd brought Lois here, thinking about her well-being. His mom seemed more than happy to jump in, but if this had been too much...
"She's fine," Lois said stiffly. "We just stayed up too late with her taking all my money playing gin last night, then she didn't have a nap this afternoon with her running around cooking appetizers for twenty five because six people were coming over." Lois shrugged and kept scrubbing. "I was kind of glad she passed out. She never lets me clean up and I don't want her lifting another finger."
Clark nodded. "I agree. I'll get the dining room and..."
"No. I got this."
"It'll be quicker if..."
"I really don't want anymore help," she cut in, whirling to face him. "I'm not a baby. I need to do something myself. Okay?"
He held her stare. "Okay."
"Good." She averted her eyes and turned to the sink again.
He stared at her back as she worked. Tiny hairs were curling at her nape with the steam from the sink and... "I should just go," he said quietly.
"Uh-huh."
"Tell my mom I'll see her tomorrow." He moved to the door.
"Wait," he heard.
He turned.
"I wanted to thank you," she said, still facing the sink, "for telling me about Citizen Kane."
"You don't have to thank me for that. It was just something I knew."
"No. I do." Her hands stopped working, but she didn't turn. "I watched it and I... I don't think I would have if it wasn't for you. It was... inspiring. And I think it was something I needed to see so I could go on," she said firmly.
He shuffled his feet and leaned against the door. "I'm sure you would have gone back to work without that."
"Well, I know that. It wasn't inspiring in that way. It wasn't even about journalism, really. It told me so much more." Her voice grew soft. "You can never go back. Kane had everything he could want and it was never enough because he could never be that happy boy with his simple life. And he was a fool. Being happy is... I think it's not a state. It's a choice. And I want to choose it. I can't go back. I can't wallow in the past. I can learn about it and from it, but... I can't be that young girl with her life ahead of her. I'm not her. I'm actually, from all accounts, everything she wanted to be. And I choose to be happy with it."
He stared at the back of her head as she grew silent. It was a shame X-ray vision didn't work in a way that allowed him to see her face. Well, he could, but it would be the inside of it. Still, it would be nice to see her face right now. "That sounds like a good choice."
"I think it is. So... thank you for remembering that."
"No problem. I remember everything about you," he found himself saying. She stiffened and he wondered if he'd said more than she wanted to hear. "You know, I really should go." He turned to the door again.
"Don't go."
He stopped again.
"I... Listen, Clark, I... I meant what I said. I want us all to be friends. But you and me, we... We need to be more than that."
He stilled. He wasn't about to hope she meant... Well, of course he'd hope, but that didn't mean...
"We have to work together," she said, turning around with a sigh.
"We do," he agreed dully. Of course.
"And we can't do that if we can't share a space. I'm not saying we'll be there in the next few minutes, but I want us to be able to work together and maybe... work toward being friends." She leaned against the sink and crossed her arms. "I know I said I wanted space, but it's not even that. I just don't want to be crowded and fussed over. I want to have a life and a job and friends who are honest with me from here on out and that wear shirts," she suddenly burst out. "For God's sake, could you put something on?"
"I meant to. I just..." He stumbled backward, nearly into a chair as she quickly turned to the sink again. "Sure. I'm just gonna go look and see if there's something... yeah." He ducked into the laundry room, burying his face in the blue shirt. Friends. He could do it. Of course, he'd been trying to since he came back into her life and with no success. Ogling her didn't make it easier, so he'd have to stop that. Her ogling him made it even harder, so he really needed a shirt.
He looked through the odd socks and pillowcases on top of the dryer and found an undershirt he must have left behind. He smoothed it over himself and stepped out. "Found one," he announced, but quietly.
"Good. That's good," she said, facing the dishes again, her voice slightly shaky. "Because I... I was only upset because you can't go running off without a shirt on."
"Well, I don't get cold, so..."
"There you go again," she said, scrubbing harder now. "Clark, it's crazy enough you never wear a coat in the winter, but you can't run around shirtless just because you can. Someone's bound to look at that shirtless guy and wonder why he's not cold or..." She shook her head. "Oh, never mind. At least you're wearing a shirt now. That's... good. Yeah."
It got too quiet again. He had to fill it. "Must have left it the last time I did laundry here."
She turned from the sink. "You do laundry here?"
"Well, I can't do it at some laundromat."
She smirked. "Sure."
"It's just with the Superman stuff, I can't do it in public places and I'd just rather do it here."
She crossed her arms. "You mean, you'd rather have your mom do it here."
"What? I do my own laundry," he insisted.
"Keep your voice down," she hissed, nodding towards the doorway.
He glanced through the walls. His mother shifted, snoring lightly, but didn't stir otherwise. He pulled back and glanced at the mess around him. For all her scrubbing, she wasn't getting much done. "You sure you don't want me to help?"
"No. I'm fine. I want to do this myself." She turned to the sink again. "Gotta do something for Martha after everything."
"Thank you," he said.
Her head nearly moved to him, but turned back. "Why are you thanking me?"
"Just for... for doing something nice for my mom."
"Who wouldn't do something nice for your mom if they could? She's... Well, you know how she is."
"I know," he cut in, as inane as it was to agree. "I'm just... I'm glad you know, too."
She shook herself. "Well, I'm not a total do-gooder. It's either this or call Linda," she muttered.
He winced, but he had to say it. "I'm not trying to tell you what to do, but... I really think you should call Linda. She probably should have been the first person you told."
"I wasn't going to let Linda manage me out of this. I want to live and..."
"No." He smiled and stared at the tiny hairs curling on her nape again. "You wouldn't have let her." He snapped out of it. "But she's family. She needs to know more than any of us."
Her hands stilled and she stared ahead of her. "I talked to Linda yesterday."
"That was yesterday and now there's more to..."
"No. Linda said something that's been bugging me," she cut in. "She talked about you and how she knew about us and red meteor rocks and memory lapses." She finally turned to him. "And this was, I assume, before Grady."
Clark's eyes widened, wondering how much Linda had said. "She must mean..." He stared at her, remembering what she'd said. If I ask, be honest and, please, be completely honest. I'd rather know than be blindsided again. And she was right. He didn't get to decide what she could or couldn't handle. He sank into a chair. "How much do you want to know?"
"I don't know." She frowned at the floor.
"I'm willing to tell you everything."
"I don't..." She sighed, then moved forward, took a chair. "Maybe we could start with why I had memory lapses, even back then. I don't get..."
"You didn't have memory lapses."
"But Linda said..."
"They weren't yours. They were mine."
She met his eyes, squinting at him. "So Grady got you, too? I thought..."
"No," he cut in, then thought better. "Actually, yes. But that was a whole other thing and had nothing to do with this." He took a deep breath and started over. "I didn't have memory lapses, exactly. They were more like mental blocks. At the time, I did things I..." Regret? No. He couldn't say that. Not really. As screwed up as it was, he couldn't regret one touch. It was what happened between that he'd take back. "I did things I wouldn't normally do at that time," he said, settling on that, "and I... I sort of blocked it out."
"That doesn't make it any clearer." She squeezed her eyes shut. "And what's with her talking about red meteor rocks? I thought it was just the green..."
"There's more than one kind of meteor rock."
She sighed and took the other chair. "How many?"
"Well, there's black kryptonite, which is derived when you heat green kryptonite to the point where..." He took a deeper breath. "It all started with the meteor shower in nineteen-eighty..."
"Stop." She leaned on the table, rubbing her eyes. "I know about the shower and Chloe's theories. I don't want the complete history of meteor rocks. I just want to know what red rocks have to do with... us," she finished, taking her hands from her eyes, but looking away.
"It's all part of the meteor shower. The green rocks were carried in the wake of my ship, but so were the red rocks. There weren't as many as the green, but they were there." And, whenever they were, she was there. Or he was, always seeking her out. Of course, older and looking back, he knew that meant something. Maybe not about her, but about him. But at the time... "The red rocks had a... different way of affecting me."
"The green rocks hurt you," she said, furrowing her brow. "They make you weak. So... did the red rocks make you stronger?"
"No." But he could see her mind working. "They made me weak in other ways. Not physically, but they..." He tried to think of a way to explain it. It was still a mystery to him in many ways. Being under their influence left little room for deep thought. "They rendered me unable to... to say no to myself, to what I wanted. Even if the thing I wanted was wrong. I did things I knew I shouldn't."
"And you blocked it out?"
He nodded. "It was a haze, at first, like being drunk must be. But that haze turned into a wall as the things I did got worse."
"What kind of things did you do?"
"Little things, the first times I was exposed. I maxed out my Dad's credit card buying things we could never afford. I went to bars, even though I was underage."
"That's not worse than most teenagers. Is it?"
"It gets worse. One summer, I topped it all. I left my parents and lived in Metropolis for a summer, wearing a ring made of red kryptonite and calling myself Kal."
Her eyes snapped to his as if she knew the name and maybe she did.
"You okay?" he asked.
She gave a jerky sort of nod. "What did you do?"
He wanted to hesitate, tell her it was enough for now, tell her to get some rest. But she wanted honesty. "I robbed an ATM to buy a sports car. I robbed a bank just because I could. I did so many bad things..." This was hardest to say, but he needed to say it and she needed to know it. "I took my best friend in an alleyway behind a dumpster."
Her eyes widened, then closed. "Did you block that out?"
"Yes," he said softly. "And that was only the start. We were sixteen. But I was older, in ways, under that influence. I said things and did things that I still..."
"Clark..."
"I knew she had feelings for me and I used that knowledge to make her mine time and time ag..."
"Stop," she hissed, burying her head in her hands.
He did. But he didn't want to. He wasn't Catholic or anything, but he could suddenly see the merit of confession, of a cleansing of sins. He needed to purge himself of what he'd done. And to her, the one he'd done it to. But this wasn't about him. "I'm sorry."
"No," she said stiffly, lifting her head, but not looking anywhere near him. "Don't be. I asked."
"Do you want me to go?" he asked after a minute of staring at the table.
"I don't know." She suddenly stood, pacing to the sink again. Her hands sunk into the water, then as quickly whipped out as she whirled on him. "So that's what it was? What we were? Some kind of... on and off fling when you were... on... alien drugs or..."
"No. It wasn't like that."
"I mean, I thought it was just some kind of secret attraction with a down-low affair, but this is... I don't even know what this is."
"I never wanted to hurt you that way. I know it was the worst thing I could have done and, I think, at the time, that's why I did it."
"The worst?" she repeatedly, more quietly now.
He nodded. "I wish I could take it back. I wish we'd..."
"But you said you robbed a bank."
"Well..."
"So sleeping with me is now worse than robbing a..."
"I didn't mean it like that. I mean..."
"No. It's fine. Now I get that guilty look on your face when you look at me. I'm some mistake from your junkie days."
"Don't say that." He stood. "It was more than that."
"How was it more than that? We were never a couple. I was some dirty little secret."
"Maybe it was secret at first, but things changed."
"Oh, really? So did you call Chloe your girlfriend?"
"Not exactly. But the red kryptonite wasn't always in the picture. Later, we finally..." He stopped.
"What? Finally what?"
He wasn't sure how to say it. We finally slept together without it before I left you again. Then I came back, slept with you some more, got pissed about you and Luthor, screwed you some more, then left you again after you told me you loved me and came back and...
She threw up her hands. "You know what, Clark? I think I do want you to go."
"I don't want you thinking of us like... I... Okay. I need to start over. If I could just tell you from the beginning..."
"Just go!"
And he did. He went as far as the edge of the drive before he stopped.
He started back, not speeding this time. He couldn't leave her thinking she was nothing more to him than some mistake from his junkie days. She was so much more to him. And he'd tell her. He'd show her she was everything to him and then...
He stopped before the house.
Then what? He'd seen the way she reacted after that first time in the house. She may be attracted to him, she may even like him -- not right now, apparently, but usually. But he couldn't force her to feel some connection to him just because he felt it to her. And telling her how he felt would only confuse her more.
He paced the yard, thinking he had to say something. Had to...
A terrible stench hit him and he realized he'd paced a little close to the porch. His clothes were still in a pile by the door. He'd meant to burn them. He moved to the porch and kicked them down the steps. He stared hard at them, glad he could do something useful for a change. He watched as they flared up... and up. Flames licked the porch railing and he frantically looked around for his mother's watering can. He spied it overturned by her potted zinnea. Probably empty. He should get the hose and...
"Idiot," he muttered, then pursed his lips, blowing the flames out toward the dirt until they died out, leaving charred scraps of clothing behind. It had been a while since he put a fire out. He moved to the yard and blew the burnt scraps toward the shorn field. With what he'd fallen in, they could only do it good.
"Trying to burn my house down?"
He turned to see his mother, pulling her sweater tight, staring at him hard.
He glanced at the porch railing and steps. "They're only singed. Nothing a paint job won't fix. I can get it tomorrow after she... just later."
"Just get it before Christmas. Can't have a bad showing for the big party."
"I'm sorry it woke you."
She shivered and sat on the top step. "I was already awake. Loud yelling will do that."
"I'm sorry about that, too."
"If that didn't do it, all the banging and cursing in the kitchen now would have worked. So," his mother began, patting the space beside her, "I take it you two finally talked again."
He took a seat beside her. "I might not have the best way of explaining things."
"You obviously don't." She sighed. "Lois has been avoiding all mention of you for days. You talk again and now this." She nudged his side. "At least she's not keeping it inside."
"I keep screwing up. I don't know how to tell her without upsetting her."
"Because there is no way. She is going to be upset and she will work through it like anybody would. But I'm not here to talk about her. I'm not worried about Lois."
"You aren't?" He glanced at her, surprised. "I'm always worried about..."
"Yes, you are. And that's the problem." She hugged her arms. "Lois is a lot stronger than you think she is. She's been fighting since she was a kid in this town, whether against the meteor-infected or for them or against the Luthors... I was here when you were gone. I've seen her go through worse things than being upset. And she's handled a lot even this week. She'll be fine. It's you I worry about now."
"Me? I'm fine. I mean, I still can't get off the ground, but..."
"You're miserable. I had a kid who used to smile and get angry and laugh and get cocky and now... All I ever see is that hangdog look on your face."
"That's not true. I have fun. I went to Jimmy's to watch a game last... uh... When was that?" He thought hard. "Well, Lois and I went bowling. I mean, we didn't really bowl, we mostly talked, but...
"This isn't about doing supposedly fun things, Clark. It's about letting go." Martha turned more fully to him. "Clark, you can't change history. Lois tried and it obviously didn't work. You can't..."
"Actually, I still don't think it was her choice to..."
"Please don't change the subject. I'm trying to tell you something." She grasped his arm. "You can't undo the past. But you also can't live in it. Whatever you did... and believe me when I say that the less detail you give me, the better. But whatever you did, you will not do it again. I know you won't and you know you won't. So to spend the rest of your life walking around like some convicted felon does no good. Maybe you can make it up to her, maybe you can't. Maybe she'll accept an apology, maybe she won't. Maybe you'll end up friends, maybe more, maybe neither. Whatever happens, you can't let your ability to live your life hang on one person. It's too much pressure. Besides that, you can't keep moping when the world needs you."
He shook his head. "Sounds like something she'd say."
"And she'd be right. Speaking of her..." Martha sighed. "This is actually what I planned to say before I saw your lost puppy face." She turned fully to him. "Clark, that girl is in my life. I'm not losing her again. And you're my son. I love you. So the two of you can work things out however you like, but do it. Be friends or coworkers or... whatever you decide. But be here for Christmas." She stood.
"I'll be here," he said, standing as well, sort of dazed. He'd sometimes thought of the possibility that they wouldn't end up together, even moments ago. He didn't think too hard on it, though. Because he'd always been so sure she’d be at the end of his path. His reward. But maybe this estrangement wasn't temporary. Maybe this would be them going on. Two people who happened to work together, happened to share holidays with the same people, never really connecting...
"Stop it," his mother said, taking his shoulders.
"Stop what?"
"Stop making yourself miserable."
"I can't help it. I always hoped..."
"So did I. But the both of us are going to have to prepare ourselves for reality. You know what I'd do?"
"What?" he asked... and miserably. He could hear it in his voice.
"I wouldn't mope. I'd cook, I'd clean, I'd read a book. I may be retired, but if I can find things to do, then you definitely can. I'd try to do anything else but dwell on things I have no control over. Clark, you have no control over this."
"I know. I have no control over anything. Not even my powers. I still can't..."
"And now you're moping over that. When you could just be glad for what you can do." She took a deep breath, then took him by the shoulders. "Clark, you couldn't fly for years and yet you managed to save lives time and again. However long it takes you to get up there again, you need to keep going on and without feeling miserable about what you can't..."
"Can't control." He squinted at her. "You're right. Why are you always right?"
"I'm a mother. It's my job." She pulled him down and kissed his cheek. "Goodnight."
He shuffled backward to the steps. "Guess you're going to talk to Lois now."
"No. I don't think I will. I think Lois needs some alone, even if it is with my dishes," she added with a nervous glance at the house.
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