He resisted until midnight.
They had finally gotten Clark home at seven that evening. The whole family had gone to the hospital with the rest of the students, staying awhile to see how Whitney and Lana were doing, how Earl was doing. The specialist Lionel - no - get it right, he thought to himself. The specialist Lex had publicly shamed Lionel into finally ordering had arrived from Gotham while they met Earl's little daughter. Earl had gone into surgery to start to remove the bits of meteorite twenty minutes after Dr. Chaudry's arrival.
The knowledge that those meteorites could - change - people terrified Jonathan Kent. Knowing that Lionel Luthor and LuthorCorp knew this was going to be enough to keep him up nights.
And it was, even now. Even after the day they had put in. But it was guilt that kept Jonathan awake, guilt for something he hadn't done, and guilt for just being around Lionel Luthor as he touched his son for the cameras, the boy's expression like he was being beaten, not embraced.
Hiram Kent hadn't been a hugger, and Jonathan was like his father, more likely to administer a manly slap on the back or a handshake. Jonathan could remember being hugged by his father only four times in his life; his confirmation at age twelve, his graduation from high school, his wedding to Martha, and a weak hug as his father breathed his last breath in the hospice.
But those rare embraces had been true hugs, emotional things that assured son and father alike that there was a bond, a love, even if real Kansas men never would speak of it aloud. The way his father's arms would squeeze around like he was trying to transfer his pride into touch, the way that he had to reciprocate, because it was too precious not to.
Compare that to Lionel embracing his son. Perfect angle for the cameras, the concerned father's face, the back of the son's bald head, never seeing a face so… lost. Such a mockery of fatherhood, of love and family. Of a simple embrace that should mean so much to men who didn't touch easily.
Martha slept hard beside him, curled tight as he spooned her, his nose buried in her hair. But he couldn't sleep, the day just replaying in his mind again and again. With a sigh, he pulled away from Martha slowly, stopping when she muttered in her sleep, relaxing when she rolled over and sprawled in the middle of the bed. He moved quickly, efficiently pulling on jeans and shirts like a man who woke early and dressed in the dark. Taking it for granted that his boots were in the back hall, his keys hanging on the rack in the kitchen.
Opening the door, he crept out into the hall. He stopped at Clark's door, cracking it open, smiling at the sight of his large son sprawled on his bed. He had always slept wide open, even as a child. Legs thrown open, arms outstretched. When he would crawl into their bed as a child he would end up in the middle, Jonathan and Martha forced to the sides. Until Martha had found if she curled with him he reacted like a doll, loose limbed, living only to be cuddled. Entering Clark's room as quietly as he could, Jonathan took the quilt from the end of the bed and spread it over Clark, smiling as his son curled up in the quilt immediately, a sigh of satisfaction interrupting his soft snores.
Jonathan stopped in the kitchen, filling and drinking a glass of water as he looked out over his land, his pride. He knew he would be the last Kent to farm here, at least full time. Clark was meant for better things, greater things.
Closed eyes and silent prayer said every day for the last twelve years - Dear God, let my son live long enough to want to retire somewhere to be a farmer.
The truck started just as quietly as the day he bought it back in 1996, his first new truck since the day he took over the farm. Just one of the perks of having a son able to lift the truck with one hand - easier do-it-yourself automotive maintenance.
He drove carefully, but enough over the speed limit to be respectable, down Route Five. It was half past midnight when he turned into the long drive that led to the Luthor Estate. He kept an eye on the sides of the road as he drove. It used to be you'd be looking for deer in an area like this, but in Smallville -
-- you never knew what was out there.
Jonathan rolled the window down as he reached the security gate, seeing lights shining from the library through the steel bars. He had known Lex wouldn't be asleep yet, and probably wouldn't be for a long time. He stared at the red light on the security camera.
"Mr. Kent?" Lex's voice came over the speaker, surprise coloring the tone, as well as something Jonathan would be willing to call melancholia.
Even Kansas farm boys knew big words for sad.
Before Jonathan could reply the gate was opening, and he drove around and up to the main door, parking next to the stone fountain. He got out and pocketing his keys, headed to the door that was already being opened. Lex Luthor stood there; dressed in black running pants and a blue shirt, holding what looked to be child's toy, a wooden horse.
Neither man said a word, Lex leading Jonathan to the library after closing the door. Jonathan sat, sinking deep into the plush leather sofa. Lex put the horse on the end table and went to the bar, pouring two glasses of Scotch, handing Jonathan one as he stalked past him to sit in the on the matching sofa.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Kent?"
Eyes so damned old and Jonathan realized how much he hated Lionel Luthor at that minute. What kind of man does that to his child?
A man like you, Jonathan, a part of him whispered. A man like you, who's raising a sixteen-year-old boy to save -
-- everyone?
"We didn't thank you, Lex."
Lex lowered the glass, staring at him.
"What?"
"We didn't thank you. Any of us. And we should have."
"I was just doing what needed to be done. I assure you, LuthorCorp would never allow..." Lex blinked as Jonathan interrupted him.
"Stop it, Lex."
The expensive carved crystal made a solid thunking noise as Lex put it down on the teak table. "Stop what?"
"Stop trying to be like him. Don't spin it. Don't make yourself that cold, it's not worth it."
A bitter laugh, an old man's laugh. "My father would say it's worth two hundred and ninety-two billion dollars."
"And when he's alone, in the end, it's not going to be enough."
"When he meets his maker?" Lex's gaze was curious, and Jonathan was reminded just how damned young twenty one really was, no matter how many years you had been drinking this fine aged Scotch on the sly.
"Yes, and probably before that."
Lex looked at the horse, sitting on the table. "You know him."
"We've met."
"When?"
"When I was a kid, not that much older than Clark, not that much younger than you, I thought I was good enough to play pro football. Your father was paying a visit that day and apparently was amused by the farm kid who wanted to play in the big city."
Lex winced. "Sorry."
"Not your fault," Jonathan realized the irony, because he really did believe that it wasn't Lex's fault. Maybe he had been wrong for the past few months. Maybe this boy-man wasn't his father's shadow. Maybe he could be -
-saved.
Maybe Clark hadn't finished saving him. And despite his bone-deep unease with what the idea of destiny with this smooth creature before him could mean for his son, Jonathan Kent began to seriously think about the idea.
"A few years later, Martha and I ran into some … money troubles, and we ended up at the LuthorCorp financing office the day your father was slu - working there."
Lex grabbed his Scotch off the table, hastily downing it, obviously not tasting it. For some silly reason, Jonathan felt resentful on behalf the Scotch.
"This story is just going to get worse, isn't it, Mr. Kent?" Lex cradled the heavy crystal glass in his hands like it was the only thing weighing him down, the only thing stopping him from fleeing.
"Why don't you call me Jonathan, Lex?" He ignored the boy's quick glance, blue eyes assessing him, no doubt looking for the price he'd have to pay for the privilege. "The deal we had was, well, it didn't work out."
"So you ended up at the bank, right?"
"Yes."
"Shit." Lex looked up at him quickly. "Sorry."
"It's okay, Lex. It was shit," Jonathan smiled tightly, remembering the desperate search for a banker willing to loan him enough money quick to pay off Lionel Luthor, freeing him of a contract he never should have signed. Borrowing from Judas to pay Lucifer. The mind numbing relief when he was approved for that second mortgage, better his farm than his soul. "It worked out, in the end."
"But you still won't take help when it's offered by a Luthor."
Jonathan looked at him and rubbed a hand over his face, realizing how tired he was, how much more tired this was making him. "No."
Lex nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Whatever it is, it's in the blood?"
Jonathan slammed his glass onto the table. "I've spent twelve years raising Clark to prove that blood isn't everything, Lex. I'm not the person to try to make that argument. I was an ass to you at first. I admit it. But let your actions speak for you. You and I both know your father would have never gone into that plant."
Lex's eyes were large, the look on his face uncertain, and Jonathan knew Lex had no idea how lost he looked.
The day he learned how to control that look, that would be the day he turned into Lionel Luthor.
And Jonathan Kent, Missouri Synod Lutheran in good standing, found himself praying for Lionel Luthor's son.
They stared into the fire, silent. Jonathan finished his Scotch, knowing Lex was running the whole conversation through filters of Lionel's creation, looking for advantage, weakness, hidden costs and profitable motives. "I need to get back to the farm, Lex."
Lex looked up from the fire and shifted back into genial host mode easily, and Jonathan pondered at an upbringing that no doubt included hosting in between how to be a corporate shark and which fork to use for the entree. "Thanks for coming, Jonathan. I appreciate it," Lex said.
Jonathan felt a surge of relief at the honesty in his expression. They got up and Lex walked him to the door. This time there was no hesitation in Jonathan's handshake, and no bitterness in Lex's expression afterward.
"Lex, come to dinner tomorrow," Jonathan said. "Clark could use a friend, especially for the next two weeks."
Lex raised an eyebrow, a faint smile curving his lips. "Grounded him, did you?"
"Oh yeah." Jonathan gave Lex a stern look. "But I hear the fire works were great."
"Too helpful?"
"Much."
"Sorry."
"Just... Just don't do it again, okay, Lex?"
"Okay." They both knew he was lying, but it was okay, just this once.
Jonathan turned on the radio for the trip back to the farm. The tape was Martha's, Vivaldi. He hadn't been completely honest with Lex, even if he knew that if Lex wanted, he could find out why Jonathan Kent had needed money back in 1989.
The crops that year had suffered in the drought, and they were faced with spending everything just to survive. It was survival that had led Jonathan Kent to LuthorCorp's Lending Branch.
Just the luck of the draw that the big man himself was there. Just the luck of the draw that he had been interested by their plight. A special contract written up and Jonathan Kent so - awestruck - that the man who had thought him a joke in a football uniform cared enough to offer the terms he had. Signing the papers right then and there.
On the way home, Jonathan had stopped for coffee, ending up with his back to three of his neighbors. They were talking about what Luthor had offered them for his land, listened as two of them agreed to sell to create this fertilizer plant while the last said no, that he didn't like the loopholes in the contract. Nor did he like the aspect of Luthor being able to control the crops from which they would be getting royalties on for two years.
So Jonathan Kent looked at his own contract. And there, in the small print, the stuff you don't read when you sign something that you want to be your solution and salvation, was a clause. Just a few words, long, legal words, but just a short sentence.
He had driven back right away, only to get a smile and more assurances from Lionel. But the man's eyes had been so cold, and when he talked, he only kept eye contact for short periods. And then he refused to withdraw the contract, refused to take back his money, with its low interest rate and it's helpful conditions.
Jonathan left early the next morning, driving the six hours to the bank in Kansas City as fast as he could, praying Lionel either didn't care, or hadn't thought he'd move this fast. He paid LuthorCorp back the next day, a cashier's check for the loan plus two days worth of interest. By the end of the week he had gone through his farm and had removed every trace of LuthorCorp technology, selling his remaining supplies of LuthorCorp fertilizers and pesticides at a loss to a neighbor and had started growing organic the next season.
And that season he had a son, a little boy with a sweet smile whom every day did things that no mere mortal could do.
And that had been his contact with Lionel Luthor and LuthorCorp, until the day Lex ran his son down on a Smallville bridge.
Maybe it was destiny. Maybe the third time was the charm. The third time he wouldn't lose, and he wouldn't let Clark or Lex or Martha or anyone else pay the price that Lionel demanded all too casually.
© EAS, December, 2001
Disclaimer: All canon based Smallville characters belong to WB and/or DC Comics.
I am making no money, just enjoying playing in the sandbox.
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