He'd always had his crosses to bear.
Hiram Kent had been a cold son of a bitch, a product of the hellfire and damnation thinking of the Dustbowl days. Jonathan could barely remember his mother; she'd faded in his memory just as she had in life. Soft hands that cuddled him as baby, the scent of rosewater comforting as he rested his head on her shoulder were memories of his early childhood, sinewy hands and rough skin the memories from his early adulthood. The funeral home's make-up artist had given her more color in death than she'd had the last twenty years of her life. Her sister had given the funeral home a red dress to lay her in; an old and ornately tailored dress shop dress, so different from the washed out dime store blues and grays that she'd lived in her last years.
He'd been on the cross in the field almost twenty-five years to the day his son was put up, a memory so shaming he'd never talked about it to another living soul since the day little Nell Potter had found him and cut him down. He'd tried to love her for it, but he'd never been able to give his whole heart to her, and she'd known it. Clark was different in that, he'd given his heart to his savior without even knowing it. It's just another thing that Clark can do that Jonathan never could do, never will be able to.
He'd never told his father about that night. It had been raining, that cold rain that's colder in the dark, the paint running down his chest, staining pants that needed to last for at least another season. He and his father had fought endlessly in those years, from high school to his try at college. His father thought in absolutes. Good and bad, there were no grays in his father's world; some days his seemed made of nothing but. Hiram Kent would have never understood about the lies that they'd told to keep Clark.
Meeting Martha was the first time he'd cut himself down from his self-imposed cross, marrying her for love instead of coming back to Nell for a duty only he felt. He'd never regretted it, but sometimes he did feel shame for the life he felt he was forcing her to lead. Felt it more acutely when she started working for the devil and begged money from her Shylock of a father.
Clark had been the second time. All their wishes and dreams in one little package that never stopped, never stood still. Their sweet little boy who dropped from the sky to be hugged tight and cuddled close. It was the right thing; he knew it every day he looked at his growing son.
But his father never would have understood.
He'd sure as hell have approved of Jonathan's loathing for the Luthor family. No sin more mortal than that of wealth to a scrub dirt farmer in Smallville, Kansas. But it wasn't the wealth as much as that day in the barn, where Jonathan had to confront his own weaknesses that made him burn.
Made him keep burning when faced with a bald headed boy he'd once saved in his own arms in that same field. He'd given back money, rebuffed any help, knowing the boy didn't know why. Deep inside he knew that the father was playing the son like any rival. Even Hiram hadn't been that cold.
Sometimes, Martha would look at him and he knew she saw the crosses, felt the niggling fear that he would never be good enough. Strong arms would wind around him, soft breasts against him. Sweet smelling hair that he could bury his nose in so she'd never see any of it in his eyes.
Tonight would be one of those nights Jonathan knew as he walked back from the barn. He hadn't expected them to be like that. The Porsche was a clear indication that Lex was over, even as late as it was. He'd climbed the stairs softly, curious as to the silence, not wanting to be pushy but wanting to know what they were doing.
Lex had been against the back of the old sofa; Clark wrapped around him, his cheek resting on the light blue cashmere sweater, Lex's chin buried in his dark hair. They were breathing evenly, one of Martha's old afghans spread over them as they slept together, sleeping easily enough that they were more than friends.
His heart didn't break at the fact his son was curled on the sofa with another man, or even that it was a Luthor with his son. Not even at the way long elegant fingers rested possessively on worn flannel. He'd been almost expecting it since the day Lex's name was mentioned more than Lana's.
Country don't mean stupid.
It was the look on Clark's face that broke his heart, that made his shoulders hunch and grow tense. A look of total peace and calm. A look of...
Opening the back door, he toed his boots off at the door, leaving them on the mat. He'd have to work to undo the laces tomorrow morning, but that was hours away and he was too tired to even think about it. He turned the light on over the sink for Clark and turned off the overhead light before climbing the stairs.
Martha was coming out of the bathroom as he entered their room. She gave him a questioning look that he ignored, going straight to his bureau and emptying his pockets out. Change in the dish, papers in the little clay plate Clark had made in the third grade that said 'World's Best Daddy', a few nuts and bolts in the other little dish to be sorted in the morning.
Too tired for anything more, he headed to the bathroom to take a quick rinse of a shower, passing the spare room with its closet of suits, where Martha was setting out her clothes for the morning. Wrapping a towel 'round his hips, he turned off the lights and returned to their bedroom. Martha was at the window, looking toward the barn, the floods glancing off the silver Porsche in the drive. It took him a moment to meet her eyes, to look past the dark circles, knowing that he's responsible for them and knowing she'd smack him into next week if he tried to take that responsibility to her face.
The quilts were already turned down and he dropped the towel, climbing into the old bed, the mattress firm, the maple headboard solid and dark with age. Martha left the curtains open a sliver, just enough to let in a little moonlight before flipping off the lights. He could hear fabric shift before she climbed in next to him and felt soft skin as she laid her head on his breast.
Soft hair the color of fire tickled his nose as he leaned in to kiss her forehead, down her cheeks, then gently, her lips. Her minty, toothpaste-fresh breath sweet in his mouth as she wrapped her arms around him. Jonathan rubbed his cheek against hers, sighing happily as she moved closer, as always comforting him just by being near.
She was breathing evenly against his skin, her exhaustion pulling her quickly into sleep. The weight of her breast against his side, her head tucked into his shoulder and he can relax, his arms holding her close, knowing that tomorrow morning they'll wake already making love. Worth anything to him, to have her in his arms, riding him, the sunlight in her hair like his own private flame. In his arms, keeping him off the cross.
There was a silver thread of moonlight on the quilts and Jonathan saw their reflection in the mirror that sat atop the bureau. For all his doubts and worries, he still has that look in his eyes.
The one he recognized in his son's.
Joy.
© EAS, March, 2003
Disclaimer: All canon based Smallville characters belong to WB and/or DC Comics.
I am making no money, just enjoying playing in the sandbox.
Home | CLexicon Fic | CLexicon | Cerebral Mutation | Email