The Butterfly Effect
by the Spike
December, 2001Summary: Lex can't let the Cassandra thing go.
Rating: R
Notes: My thanks to Debchan go above and beyond here. I would never have written this story without her encouragement. Thanks also to Te for tag-team audiencing and Livia, for precise, generous, thoughtful and encouraging as all hell beta.*
It had been relatively easy to acquire Cassandra Carver's mortal remains. Thirteen thousand dollars for a new eight-body walk-in refrigerator and the mortuary had respectfully buried an 87 pound sandbag in a yellow linen suit. The body had been sent to a discrete and reputable private mortuary service in Metropolis.
When they were done, what was left was sent to Lex's personal laboratory at the mansion. It fit into a standard 10 by 14 ice chest and clinked a little when he picked it up.
Now the vials are all in use. He's done this the old fashioned way, hypothesis and experiment. He has hundreds going. It reminds him, pleasantly of the candy-making he'd done at Good Old Met U. The *other* other reason for his popularity. What passed for his popularity.
Of course what he's making now is just as illegal. Unquestionably more dangerous. Not likely to make him popular at all.
If it works, it might make him richer. A *lot* richer. Maybe rich enough to finally show his dad... well, the door for one.
And that's still not why he's doing it. He knows why he's doing it.
It's the same reason there's a Porsche with a sardine-can roof in his storage room; the same reason he has a new pet reporter and a hundred thousand dollar geologist: he doesn't like mysteries. Mysteries are the universe snickering as he walks by and pulling a straight face when he turns around. And sure, he's over it enough to know he'll never really be over it and even so. Even so.
And besides, it's something he's really, really good at, all on his own.
It would take a team of trained pharmacologists a couple of years to achieve the results he and his mini-Cray and his little black wouldn't-the-NSA-die-to-get-their-hands-on-this gene-resequencer have managed in a month. He's almost proud, or would be proud if he wasn't feeling quite so sick. The prospect of success doesn't usually fill him with this kind of stark -- *bald* -- terror, but then again... The visions that killed Cassandra came from was far less pure extract than what's n the ampule in his right hand
He's pretty sure his heart is stronger than hers. It's still going to be quite the rush.
He tosses the ampule in the air and catches it. He's sent the staff home for the weekend, told everyone who needs telling that he'll be somewhere unreachable. The sun is down, all is quiet in Smallville and there's nothing left to do but... do. He tosses the ampule again, higher, possibly hoping he'll miss, it'll shatter and he can call the whole game for rain.
No such luck. It lands label up in his palm. Batch #664. Just two more and he'd have had irony, which is... too self-referential to be anything but another private joke he can share only with himself.
Maybe he's just waiting for that eleventh hour phone call: Hey, Lex. It's Clark. About all this weird stuff that's been going on...
Riiiight.
And enough 'pissing of time' as Heike would say. He takes the things he needs from the table, snaps off the light and locks the door behind him when he goes.
All the way out to the garage. He's decided on the Porsche Carerra. It has a webbed 6-point safety restraint that will help if he seizures -- which he's pretty sure he will, given what he knows about Batch #664. And besides, he never liked the upholstery.
He straps himself in and sets his things, including a half a dozen water bottles, onto the seat and rolls up his sleeve. Ties off the tourniquet. Allows himself one last stall -- turns on the cd player. Ramones. I Wanna Be Sedated. Pretty much perfect. And gets the needle out and fills it.
664... Essence of Oracle. Liquid Sybil. The marketability potential is huge on name alone.
And then there's nothing but him and the needle and Lex has to stop pretending that this anything but what it is.
And he punches the spike into his vein and shoots himself full of tomorrow...
*
Packing books for the library book sale had been satisfyingly dutiful and given Martha the ideal chance to catch up on the loop of Smallville social politics without having to actually join in. Having Clark along to tote boxes had turned out to be a surprise blessing. Winking at her over piled boxes while Mrs. Miller from the hardware store waxed long and loud about the terrible lack of work ethic in today's youth. Grinning at her when Jack Thorvald started in on his pet peeve: traffic lights.
She'd never really thought of her son as that kind of ally before, but he really did share her sense of humor and their mutual amusement never felt like meanness with him. Somehow she knew that he was just as gently fond of Smallville's denizens as she was.
So grown up these days. Really, a young man. Handsome. Strong. Starting to be charming in that ridiculous, unpredictable, utterly wonderful Kent way. Martha smiles and wonders whether Clark had noticed Janice Howell's daughter being charmed. Looks over at her son and only *just* catches the streak of motion in the truck's headlights.
Too fast to really register but it does -- dark clothes, pale wide-eyed face in the white light, running shape hunched low like an animal and gone. Martha hits the brakes and truck slews right and fishtail-stops, catching her up hard against the seatbelt. Clark too, as they both rock back into the bench seat.
There is a moment when everything is much too still and she feels nothing at all and then, like the power coming back after a blackout, everything rushes back in. Truck, night, the sharp ache in her chest, Clark. Clark! Fumbling with his seatbelt, looming up over her.
"Mom, you okay?" It's knocked the breath right out of her and the adrenaline floods in like a river, closing her throat but she knows she's only shaken, not hurt and nods. Swallows, forces her voice to *work*.
"Fine. I'm..." Strangely horrified. "Clark, that was... "
"Lex," He's got the truck door open. Eyes round and bright. "I know. I'll be right back." Gone with that zipping sound that shouldn't be as familiar as it is. Martha takes a second or six to breathe, make sure she really is as whole as she feels and then gets out of the truck herself.
The road is empty. A soft, cool wind blows across stubbled cornfields, dark with moonlight and shadow. Martha can smell fresh earth, dust, and burnt rubber. She can hear -- distant struggling, a yell, a flurry of motion and Lex is exploding out of the dead corn, arms and legs and madness in his strange, soft face.
Clark yells: "Mom...!"
Too far away and sounding scared and Lex's eyes meet hers at just that moment. They both freeze and she can see now: there is something wrong with Lex, the way there was something wrong with that boy who broke the generator. Martha is too scared to be scared, the way she always is when Things. Need. Doing. And they need doing right now.
"Lex," she says, Mother Calm. His eyes tick right for a second, his mouth opens like he's going to say something. Or... run. His face is shiny, mouth wet. He looks ill. Okay, he looks *high*, but... He needs their help.
"Are you all right?" she asks. Softly. Low and warm. Clark comes out of the field to their right, skidding to a halt behind Lex. Lex whirls to him and out of instinct Martha can't let that happen.
"Lex!" Firmly, this time. Her no-messing-around Mom-voice and Lex... turns back to her, Uncertain. His breathing is harsh and there's a terrible blankness in eyes that she's used to finding startlingly aware. Whatever he's seeing, it's... far away. And still scaring him badly. "Lex, honey, it's okay. Come here." He's looking at her, obviously not seeing her at all but she's pretty sure he hears her voice.
Walking towards him, slow and measured until she's close enough to reach out, touch his wrist. The cuff is unbuttoned. He smells strongly of sweat and fear and something... bitter. She slips her hand into his limp hand..
Hot, wet palm and he jerks a little at her touch. Blinks and *sees* her. Or sees...
His face goes soft, so open she wonders that she ever thought he was so much more grown up than Clark.
"M-mom...?" He asks. His voice is ragged in the night air and before she can tell him no his eyes roll back in his head and only the fact that Clark moves faster than anything alive should ever move stops him from falling hard and boneless to the ground.
*
Martha's first thought is to get him to a hospital but Clark surprises her by pleading with her not to. He has lots of reasons: the distance -- they're closer to the farm by far; the strangeness of whatever's wrong; the general family distrust of doctors; the potential for scandal and headlines around any Luthor misstep...
Martha surprises herself by agreeing.
They get him into the truck and Martha is again a little surprised that Clark assumes the job of holding Lex upright without even asking if he should drive. Surprised too at the competently protective way Clark keeps an arm around him, holds the naked head against his shoulder, telling Lex -- as she had told him -- that it's okay, he's going to be okay. She's not sure if Lex is answering or not. He's not quite unconscious, moving restlessly between them, making distressed sounds, radiating heat and shivering at once.
She's not entirely sure why she's surprised at the way Clark's behaving. She knows Clark thinks of Lex as his friend. She genuinely believes that herself, despite her misgivings about young Mr. Luthor and his manipulative tendencies. She guesses she'd never really thought about it much. Never has really spent time with the two of them together. It's never occurred to her that they're close.
She's not sure how she feels about that.
She can't remember when she forgot that Arlene Luthor had red hair. Lex twists a little frantically between them.
"Shh..." Clark says, soothingly. When Martha glances over, she sees his cheek is almost brushing the pale, bare curve of skull. It looks... and the word that comes into her mind is 'naked' which is viscerally uncomfortable. She looks away, back at the road, sees the familiar landmarks of Hickory Lane.
"We're almost home," she says.
"Good," says Clark. And the slightly desperate sound of his voice makes her look over at them again, just has time to register that they are struggling before Lex's flailing elbow catches her across the bridge of the nose and stars explode inside her head.
*
It all happens really fast. Clark doesn't realize Lex is struggling -- doesn't even really get that he's *conscious* -- until it's too late and Mom's clutching her face and the truck bounce-jerks into the yard.
Just a second and Lex is up on his knees, cursing at him, punching Clark's hands away hard enough that he knows it would hurt anybody else. His mother is saying something too and he can't hear her through her hands but he can smell blood. Smell that still freezes him. Like the raw sound of Lex's voice...
Torn enough between which of them to help first that Lex's lunge for the door is successful and they are tumbling out of the slowing truck together, skidding hard on the ground. He is up an on his feet before Lex stops rolling. Grabs the doorframe of the truck and makes it stop before Lex gets up. Still not fast enough to stop Lex lurching hard into the side of the truck bed. Still trying to run.
"Lex. Stop."
Backed against the truck, hunched over himself and breath hitching.
"No...Fucking... Let me--" Eyes darting everywhere, looking to run again. Looking like an animal. He can't let that happen.
"*Please...*" Taking a step forward and Lex's arms come up protectively in front of his face like Clark is going to hit him or something and it makes him cringe. Makes him stop in his tracks because he was just *reaching*. "Lex..."
"What the hell is going on here?"
Clark turns at his dad's voice, sees him coming out of the barn, striding fast and angry, carrying a flashlight. Hears the slam of the truck door.
"It's all right, Jonathan," his mother says. She comes around the front of the truck, handkerchief to her nose.
"Martha..."
"It's okay," she says. "We need to take care of this first. Don't let him--" And when Clark turns to look Lex is running. Not even a second to think about it before he catches Lex up by the waist, lets their combined momentum take them forward to the ground. It's too crazy. Lex under him is fighting like it's his *life* to get away and it's scaring the hell out of him and making him mad and why can't he just *stop* this. Gets his hands on Lex's wrists and pins him to the dirt.
"Stop it." And the flashlight beam hits Lex dead in the face and for the first time he sees that Lex's eyes are... black. Pupils like black dimes with the thinnest rind of blue. Lex's face squeezes into a grimace of pain and he tries to turn out of the light.
"That boy needs to be in a hospital."
"NO!" Desperate thrashing and he wishes just for a second that his parents weren't there because all he can think of to do is wrap his whole body around Lex. Protect him. Wishes to God he knew from what.
"We tried that." Wishes to God someone would just stop until he could figure this--
"Son, we're just--"
"No, dad. Please. And stop fighting, Lex. I'm not letting you go." And Lex's anguished wail just rips through him. Makes him feel like someone just shoved a meteor rock up against his chest. Can't hardly breathe because he's finally figured out what Lex is saying
"...get off me. Don't touch me. You shouldn't..."
"He's high as a kite."
"*Dad...*"
"God, Clark, let me *go*..." Clear enough to ring across the dark yard. So much *hurt* in it, it makes him clench his hands around the frail human wrists. But he feels so weirdly calm under everything else.
"Why?" he asks, softly. Fiercely. "So you can get lost in the fields? So you can run into the road and get killed?"
The words hang in the stillness and he can hear Lex's breathing, ragged and clicking a little with his chattering teeth. It's cold. Clark can almost feel it, except it's coming at him from the inside. Looking into the wide, hopeless eyes.
"What... You... you want to *die*, Lex?"
And feels the exact moment when the fight runs out. Lex suddenly so soft under him, so... soft. Sound like a sob that really shouldn't make him think of laughter and under it, words like a last breath, voiceless and still absolutely certain.
"Really... need to. Yes."
He thinks maybe he should be something besides so angry he could break Lex's wrists. Or that anger shouldn't be this cold. Or... something.
"Lex. I'm not going to let you kill yourself."
"I know. Went through them all. It won't be you." Ignores the druggy rambling.
"Will you come inside, now? Get warm...?"
Lex nods. Looking more sane by the second. Except for his eyes and...
"Probably. I think I saw that somewhere." His eyes close momentarily. Spring open. "Yeah. It's there..."
...everything.
But when Clark lets go his wrists he doesn't fight. Doesn't run. Shakes off Clark's hand and gets himself to shaky legs and lets them take him in.
*
The Kents' house looks as warm and yellow as Christmas inside but he can't stop shivering.
Some kind of anticholinergic reaction or... no, he's sweating so much, maybe... Fuck it. He's poisoned, he knows that. Can only wonder how permanent the damage is. How much fluid his body can throw off before he goes into shock and if he's going to be lucky enough for it to happen before the Kents can catch on and send him out into the cornfield.
Wait, not 'cornfield'...
Cornyard.
Boneyard. Bonefield. Graveyard.
It's starting again. He wipes his wet hands on his pants and the blood is still clear. Clear blood. Serum. Semen.
Which one is this? Weird branching of the paths in his head and another hundred futures are birthed. He knows them by color now -- red, black, yellow, gray. Blood and power and death and his, his, his.
Every single time.
There's an algorithm for this, he's sure. If he could just have time to do the math. If he could just figure the formula where every breath is a step that takes him from bad to worse to...
More than one at a time. More than an infinite number where he can try and he can try but he just can't *not* breathe long enough.
Hands on his shoulders, shaking him and he has to breathe (step), breathe (step) and he opens his eyes.
She's there. Red hair ghosting to white and back to red. Face of love slumping into age, firming into youth. Blood dripping from her nose, eyes, ghost eyes...
He reaches out to wipe the blood away but stops before he touches her. Still sees the petals of her eyes and lips blacken and curl under his hand. Poison. He has to close his eyes
"Sorry," he says. "I didn't mean it."
"It's okay, honey. I know that." Blanket around his shoulders drives the shivers deeper. She moves away and moves away and moves away and there's a glass of water in his hand.
"You need to drink."
"Can't," he says. "Poison."
"It's not poisoned," she says. "Look." She takes a sip. She dies. She rots. She's bones. She's dust.
"Not it," he says. "Me." Water against his lips and his greedy body drinks. It burns all the way down.
"I think he's hallucinating again."
"Any idea what he took?"
"Not a clue, but he injected it." Hand on his bare arm and he yanks away. Not fast enough and this time it's something before her death -- tears, a letter in the mail.
"Oh my God, Lex..." His name in Clark's voice sends a shimmer across the paths, like a rain of gold, like a rain of fire but nothing burns. Just warmth he moves towards.
"Whoah, steady..." Firm hand on his sleeve this time and he gets nothing. Is grateful. Says his prayers.
"And tell me again why we're not at the hospital?"
He remembers the rows on rows of beds, the living skeletons, the weeping.
"The hospital couldn't save them." Quiet in the room. He could sleep here maybe. Someone's still crying, though. Shhh, he thinks. They'll hear.
"Let's talk outside."
"I'll stay." Golden shivers.
"Okay."
Okay. But then he breathes.
*
Lex is crying and it’s the strangest thing Clark can imagine. No sound. It's like he's swallowing every sob before it gets out, like the tears just leak and leak out of his eyes. It's hard to watch. Impossible to look away. This is *Lex* and Lex is the strongest person he knows.
At least -- and he's spent some time thinking this through -- he's the person who needs to be strong most often. His parents, they're strong in a completely different way. Like they're solid all the way through. But it's hard for him to really know what's inside Lex except he thinks it must hurt. Something about being the kind of freak that everyone can see. All the time.
And well, there's this. This *this* that makes him want to shake Lex back to his senses or hug him so tightly he can't let go or...
Clark blushes. Things he wants to do to/with/for Lex.
He's pretty sure sometimes, that Lex would want him to. Other times, he knows he's lost a cog or something. Wishes to hell that his next freakish new power could be the legendary gaydar. For his noble destiny. Right. And blushes again because how can he be thinking about this *now*.
Lex. Is crying.
And Clark just can't stand it, going to cry himself in a minute and he reaches out and pats Lex's shoulder. Warms when Lex just moves into his touch. And keeps moring when he shifts over, lets his hand slide around Lex's shoulders so that they end up pressed into one another on the sofa.
Lex leaning against him again. Head heavy against his chest. Hot and wet under the quilt and now he can't see if Lex is still crying but he seems quieter now. Almost boneless. Breathing.
He listens to it, feels Lex rise and fall with it. Can't imagine a world with this not in it. Leans his head down so his lips are right by Lex's ear:
"Keep breathing," he whispers. And presses his lips just lightly against the slick, hot skin of Lex's temple.
SHOCK
hot and yellow, piercing and coring him like electricity or ice and he's falling way too fast, seeing in flashes:
-fields of flowers black and curling
-babies all bones and paper skin, laid out like cordwood along the ditches-
-rivers of choking yellow mist and soldiers falling-
-splitting skin, the retch of poisoned bile, the sweet, wet stink of rot--himself, a blur of speed and power -- saving hundreds, letting thousands die
-and Lex
owner of this burnt and blasted earth
clean white suit and clean white smile
and blood
and blood
and blood
and bloodHorrible endless loop until hands grab him, pull him backwards into the world again where all he can do is drag air into his lungs and choke.
"What happened? Clark! Are you all right? Just breathe, son. Breathe." His dad's arms are as strong as they ever were and his chest is warm against Clark's back. And God, he just wants to be held like this, safe and not alone. Choking turns into sobs. Just a couple and he's not... it's not... it's just it was so *much* and so... so *real*.
"What was, son?"
"Can you tell us what happened, Clark?" Mom's right there, eyes bright, hand on his cheek and just like that he's home and safe and he never wants to be without her. Never wants to be alone. Not like this not like...
pouring graveyard rain
Oh no. Sits up, pulling away from Dad and Mom and *damn* him, Lex is *watching* him.
Cassandra...
Grabs Lex's shirt, wet silk cold in his hand, but not as cold as anything inside him.
"What did you *do*?"
"Son..." His dad's hands on his arms, but he can't focus his eyes on anything but the space between him and Lex. Who is. Watching still, eyes heavy and wet, lashes dark with tears and somehow red, like the blood is already on them. But he's definitely in there now and blinking himself back from where they've been.
"Clark...?" So lost and Clark's anger wars with fear and sorry-ness. Oh god oh god..
"What did you do, Lex?"
"I..." And he can see more of Lex arriving in his expression every second. Sees him finally get that Clark is angry and scared and freaked except instead of anything normal his mouth curls into this stupid, sleepy smirk . "... really fucked up, Clark. In case you hadn't not--"
"Don't." Clark shakes him, hard enough to make Lex's teeth close with a snap. "Don't try to..." He's *not* going to cry. Doesn't Lex *see* it. Doesn't Lex *know*?
"But then you had to notice, didn't you? 'Cause you were there, Clark. Weren't you? You saw... you saw..." breaking on the words. Eyes filling, spilling helpless tears.
It *hurts*. He can hardly get words out past the knot in his throat.
"Lex, what did you *do*..."
"You know what I did." Low and angry. Clark shakes his head. He doesn't know, not for as long as he can keep it from rushing into his head. Wants Lex to tell him anyway.
"You're asking 'why'."
And not.
"Okay, then: *why*?"
"I'll answer yours, if you'll answer mine, Clark."
"Hold on," his dad says, bringing him back to the living room with a kind of shock. "What are you boys talking about."
"Clark...?" Mom sounds scared. And he knows they're there but he can't look away. Lex's eyes are so... flat. Black eyes still not seeing all the way out.
-of blood and blood and blood -
It makes him sick to his stomach. Green-rock sick. That smile. Not smiling now.
"Tell them."
"Later," and then he does look at them because he can't stand to think of shutting them out. Takes his mom's hand and squeezes. "Promise."
"Right. Tell them later. After. Before..."
"It's not... Lex, they're just signposts. Cassandra said. And my dad. We make our own destiny. Nothing's written in stone."
Lex opens his mouth to say something and then closes it. Looks at Clark. It's a long look and so many things pass across his face Clark can almost catch them, almost put words to them.
Believe me, he wants to say. Trust me. Lex's eyes flutter a little. Fall shut.
"Lex?" He can't stop himself from reaching out. Palm to Lex's knee. The eyes snap open, not quite there. "Lex, what's happening?"
"There are a lot of stones, Clark," Lex says. Soft. Not angry any more.
"What does that mean?" It seems to take some real effort for Lex to focus this time. Get the words out.
"A lot of... futures. You just saw... one." Clark thinks about that.
"Well, that's good. Right? There are other futures." Lex winces, eyes fall shut again.
"Millions." Almost a whisper. "Millions and millions."
"Millions of futures?"
"Millions of stones."
"Lex?"
"He's going again."
"They all fell. Right out of the sky. You saw them. Everybody saw them." Eyes swinging open again like gates. But they focus right on him, boring through his eyes to his brain like Lex has X-Ray vision too. And maybe he does. "I saw you, you know."
Cold blush of fear that he hates and it's possible.
"You're just hallucinating," he says. Lies. He remembers that graveyard. Remembers the cold, blue shock of future rain. All those people he couldn't save.
And, no, not this too...*Please*
"You were always running. I think you were a criminal. Do you have that in you, Clark?"
"What? No!"
"Or a fireman. You were on fire. You flew through the air like a stone. And you still couldn't save them."
"Lex, come on, focus." One hand still in Lex's shirt and he lets it go. Braces himself. Takes Lex's hand instead. Gets the shock again and a sharp glance and yeah, Lex can see him when they're touching And he can see...
lightning, fire, blood...
He bears down on it. Ready for it this time. Tunes it out like the sound of electricity humming in the air. Focuses: "You said there were millions of different futures, right?"
"Stones."
"Okay, millions of different stones, but the stones have writing on them and each stone is a future, right? So what you have to do is take a look around in there. Find the path that's good and--" And Lex is laughing. It shocks him... enough that he loses himself to horror and the feel of his hand slipping through rotting flesh to bone.
And tries to let go, but Lex is gripping him. Black gloved hand and green stone eyes and that smile...
The future changes. He feels it change. He's a different man, has lived a different life. The suit is blue, the glove is gemstone red. The smile...
And change again, and change again and every field is black and everyone is buried in the salted ground and Lex is his enemy and doesn't even *know* it.
Never knows it. Never knows it's Clark he's hating under all that...
...and Clark feels the branches split and split and split again.
He can't even breathe. He and Lex and hand in glove, hand to hand until they're buried under the weight of all that death, no way to dig out without breaking through bodies and bones and...
not everyone is dead before he starts
*oh god please make it stop*
And Lex lets go.
And it's... he's going to be sick. He's going to... reeling back and he's on his feet before he even thinks about it.
"Clark!" His dad's voice is distant, like he's underwater. His mom's hand is on his leg but all he can see is Lex, black eyes in a pale white face. Face of Death he doesn't want to believe it can't believe it Lex would never... Stumbles over his own feet as he backs away, but doesn't fall. He never falls. He's going to save the world. He's going to...
And all he can do, is run.
*
Jonathan's right on Clark's heels, but the yard is empty by the time gets outside. For a second he's hit with the old familiar helplessness -- what if Clark's run to... Alaska? Or... the moon? --- but to his relief there's a light on in the barn.
He thanks God again that Clark hasn't spread his wings and flown. It'll happen soon enough. Literally, maybe if things keep going as they have. He shakes his head as he crosses the damp grass.
He's been bracing himself for Clark's adolescence for 12 years. Nights like this he wonders if fifty would have been enough.
And, as usual, having a Luthor around has helped a whole heck of a lot. Another familiar thought, but tonight it feels mean-spirited. Lex is... not so easy to pigeonhole as a Luthor. And obviously paying for whatever stupid thing he'd done.
The barn door is slightly ajar. Jonathan listens for a second, hears something muffled and soft and makes some noise. Gives Clark a couple of seconds to get himself together if he needs to, then heads up the stairs.
"Son?" No answer, but that was definitely a wet snuffle. Worrisome. Clark wasn't much of a crier, even as a kid, except when he was badly hurt. Emotionally hurt of course. That time the McKenny kids threw pebbles at him. Not a bruise, not a scratch on him and he'd sobbed in Martha's arms like his heart had been broken.
He pauses at the top of the stairs, takes a minute for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. Clark is sitting on the floor beside his telescope, elbows between his knees. Head in his arms. Jonathan wonders if he'll ever stop wanting to be able to pick Clark up and hug him.
Nah, he doesn't wonder. Settles himself on the edge of the bed.
"You want to tell me what happened, Clark?" Clark doesn't answer right away. Takes a breath like he's going to start a couple of times and each time ends up just shaking his head. Just when Jonathan's thinking maybe he'll ask it another way Clark raises his head and swipes at his eyes. Says:
"You remember Cassandra Carver?"
"The old woman who said she could read futures?"
"She *could*, Dad."
"Clark..."
"Well, she could see *something* and when I touched her hand, I could see it too."
Not nice to think ill of the dead but, dammit, Jonathan thinks, that old woman had no right to go scaring the hell out of other people's children.
"I remember, son. Are you saying she saw something about this? About what's happening tonight?"
Clark seems to think about that for a second, frowning. Then he shakes his head. Not just 'no' but Jonathan can see he's trying to shake off whatever had scared the hell out of him. He reaches down, lays his hand on Clark's head, not quite ruffling. Clark's hand wraps around his wrist. His kid's hand -- warm, damp, a little sticky -- a big hand, but nothing anyone would notice.
"If you tell me," he says gently. "Maybe I can help." There's a long minute where he can feel the effort of Clark not crying. Makes him angry again at anyone who'd ever hurt his boy. His good boy. Gives another gentle squeeze, gets an answering one from Clark's hand.
"I don't know what he did," Clark says, finally. "But the same thing happened when I kissed Lex."
*Kissed*? For a second the word doesn't make any sense there at all. Enough that he actually misses the next thing Clark says.
"Wait, slow down. You think Lex somehow got Cassandra's fortune telling... powers?"
"I think it was the drug, whatever he took. It was the same... the same feeling. Only ten... a hundred times worse... "
Kissed. Lex.
"So, you... saw your future again?"
"I don't know. Mine. Or maybe Lex's. Or... we were all tied together. All these futures..."
Lex. Luthor.
"Looks like it shook you up pretty bad. But remember what we talked about. It's not 'the future' you're seeing. Sounds like there are a lot of possible futures."
Clark shakes his head.
"You know how you're always saying I'm meant for better things?"
"Yeah."
"What if I am? *Meant* for something. Doesn't that mean that it's all already decided? And what if Lex is meant for something too? What if no matter what we do, everything just pushes us down the path that's already decided."
"Clark... When I say you're 'meant' for something -- I don't mean it's decided. What I mean is..." He's never really thought this through. He doesn't believe in 'messages from god' or destiny. He believes a man makes his own life from what he starts with. "...I mean I think you have all this potential. All these strengths. And I believe that if you have gifts, you have a responsibility to make the most of them. That's all."
"What about Lex?"
"What about him?"
"What if... what if you have gifts, but they're... not good. What if your gifts make you who you are? Even if you don't want to be that way..."
"Your gifts don't make you who you are, Clark. You always have choices about how to use them."
"So you think Lex has a choice about who he is? That's he doesn't have to be like his father?"
"I think..." Jonathan runs a hand over his face. He's not entirely sure what he thinks right now, except that he really doesn't want it to include the Luthors. Lex, in particular. Kissed? Bastard. He sighs. "Yes. I think he has some choices. And before you jump in and ask why I'm so hard on him, I'll tell you. It's because even while I think Lex has the same choices you have, I'm just not sure he knows enough about right and wrong to make the right ones."
Clark nods and for a space of time all is calm. Quiet night. Cricket chirps despite the cool.
The first sob, when it comes, is wracking but Jonathan is ready for it somehow -- just pulls Clark into him, strokes the head on his knee and lets him cry.
It goes for a while. Jonathan suddenly feels how tired he is. Wonders how late it is. Wonders if it's really right to expect Clark to live up to the potential of *all* his gifts. Maybe that's too much for anyone.
Human or not.
"Sounds like what you saw was pretty bad." Clark nods against his knee. Goddamn Luthors. Except... the boy back at the house was crying too. Destiny. A funny word. Something noble when you say it, but when it comes down to kids. To boys just taking those first steps into manhood...
"You know I only ever expect you to do your best, son. Not *more* than that." Feels Clark tense against him, snuffle wetly and turn his head, resting his cheek where his forehead had been.
"If my best isn't good enough, people will die."
"People die, son. It's the way of the world. You can't save everyone."
"That isn't fair."
"I know." They sit in the quiet with that for a while. And then he feels Clark tense again. Almost a spasm as he chokes on a fresh sob.
"Oh god..." The sound of it actually gives him a scare.
"What is it?" As Clark sits up, wet eyes glittering.
"What if... what if I could save them -- all of them -- but I had to... do something awful."
"What are you saying?"
"I mean what if I could say at lot of people just by killing one person... And if I don't... if I don't then hundreds of people would die?"
"Oh, Clark, for heaven's sake. You're not responsible for-- "
"But I'm the only *one*. I saw it... I saw--"
"Okay, that's enough, son. You're not killing anybody."
"You didn't see what I saw." And Clark is shivering. His boy who never gets cold or hurts is shivering and it gives Jonathan the strangest feeling. He doesn't want to believe in shape-shifters or aliens or fire-breathing coaches. He doesn't want to have to explain a world with futures you can really read. But he loves his son and whether he wants to believe in these things or not, he's not prepared to let Clark face them on his own.
"No, I didn't see them. But maybe you'd better tell me."
*
By the time the telling is done, Clark is yawning and the tears have stopped. Jonathan feels like he's been breaking ground with a pickaxe for hours.
"You need to get some sleep, son," he says after they've both been silent for a while. Clark jumps a little when Jonathan speaks as though he were already dozing. Still, no teenage boy ever just goes to bed.
"I'll just have nightmares."
"You have to sleep sometime."
"Maybe... in a little bit? I just want to stay out here for a while," he says. "Look at some stars. Try to... I don't know. Figure stuff out, I guess. Okay?"
Jonathan thinks about it, decides that yeah, maybe that is what's needed. Clark seems calm enough to maybe get some perspective. At least he isn't talking about killing anyone anymore.
Even if maybe the thought is... thinkable.
Jonathan rubs his eyes. They feel scratchy and like they're open too wide.
"Okay," he says. "But not all night. I don't want you sleeping out here. Got it?"
"Got it," Clark says. And then, as Jonathan pries himself off the bed and to his feet. "Thanks."
Jonathan stops a minute at the top of the stairs. So much to think about, so much to say, and for all his fears and all the things that have to be taught, he really never doubts Clark. Figures maybe Clark has a right to know that. Maybe even has a need.
Kissed. Lex. Luthor. *Dammit*.
Still...
"You're a good boy, Clark," he says. "I know you're going to be a good man." And knows from the way Clark looks at him, somewhere between doubt and terrible hope, that he isn't wrong about that.
And so...
He goes down the stairs, quick stop in the workshop to grab a few things and he heads back to the house. The air has the flat feel of early morning. No more moonlight, crunch of not quite frost on the grass.
The kitchen door is unlatched and the house is so warm by comparison it makes his eyes tear a little. Jonathan leaves his bundle by the door and moves quietly into the living room.
Martha, eyes closed, head back against the chair, bloody kleenex in her hand.
Cold shudder at the sight and whatever he might believe, it's a relief when Martha opens her eyes and rises to him. Kiss on the cheek that makes him want to hold her tight to him but he lets her pull back -- long as she leaves her arms around his neck.
"How's Clark?" she asks.
"A little rough," Jonathan says. "I think he'll be okay. I'll check on him later. How's..." He motions to the lump on the sofa.
"Pretty much the same. He drifted off after you left. Been quiet ever since. I think the worst of it's over."
"Yeah," Jonathan says and hopes to hell Martha doesn't have her mind reading tuned up. But she doesn't. She's tired. Gives him a sleepy smile. Her nose is still red, darkish circles under her eyes -- she might have a couple of shiners in the morning. Which is probably only a couple of hours away.
"Why don't you go on up to bed," he says. "I'll stay with him 'til morning."
"You know I really should argue with you..." Martha says. "But my head is killing me." Jonathan kisses the head in question and hugs her to him, holds her for a moment breathing in her scent and her hair. Regretting any moment he's ever taken her for granted. She gives him a look before she goes, but he just shakes his head ruefully and smiles and she lets it pass. Goes upstairs.
He takes the time to appreciate watching her go. Waits until he hears the creak of the bed before he retrieves his bundle from the kitchen, pulls the chair around to where he has a clear sight line of the sleeping young man who's brought his trouble into Jonathan's house, and settles in to wait.
*
Clark listens to his dad's footsteps crunching across the ground and thinks he should probably move. He wants to look at the stars, he really does, but all he does is slouch against the wall, drifting in his head. Doesn't seem to be able to push himself back to life. Like he's talked out every ounce of energy he ever had. Not sure if it's better or worse this way, to feel nothing instead of feeling like wants to die.
Not that he even necessarily has that option.
Right. That's what he was thinking about.
Options. Choices. Destiny. Fate. Determinism. Free will.
Of all the philosophy he's downed over the years, does anyone know anything for sure? Clark racks his brain, fights a little to put the drifty thoughts in some kind of order.
Free will. That's what he's getting at. His dad's whole point. The opportunity to choose, really *choose* who you would be. How you'd live your life. The opposite of destiny. So what would he be? A good man? A bad man?
Nietszche said there was really no such thing, just the will to power. In humans anyway. Would Nietszche be all right with the things Clark had seen? Future Lex just a really successful human? So... would that apply to him too? All his powers -- how come *he* wasn't the one...
No. Don't go there.
And he's maybe not as numb as he'd thought. It's enough to get him to his feet anyway, wiping at his eyes. He turns the light out, puts his eye to the telescope.
Stars.
One of them possibly his. He still can't wrap his head around that. Impossible not to think of himself as anything but human. But even if he isn't...
Nietszche said the will to power was something that everything alive had.
So maybe it does apply to him. His kind. A whole planet full of freakishly strong, speedy, x-ray eyed aliens just pushing at the seams of their world.
Maybe he's their first seed on this planet. And he shivers again. He doesn't want to be a seed.
Right now he doesn't want to be anything. And no matter what his dad says, he doesn't think he's going to have that choice.
With great power comes great responsibility. He's not actually sure where he read that but he believes it. He believes his dad believes it. Except...
He doesn't want to *do* this.
This.
*This* ... is killing. Lex. Forcing himself to think the words out so he can kick the stupid idea out of his head. Hates more than anything that he can't, that it stands there, pretending to be an answer.
And the stars really aren't all that *god damned* comforting tonight. So what if life is better somewhere else? He's here now. He swings the telescope down, finds Lana's window automatically. Dark now. They must be sleeping...
-gets another horrifying flash: Lana, Lex's wife, rotting from the inside out, black with cancer--
Fading even as it makes him retch. How can he do this? He lets himself fall back against the wall, slides down. How can he *not*?
So is that what destiny means? Fate? Not that you don't have free will just that there are some things you have to do because they're right?
Nietszche has plenty to say on that subject. Right and wrong. Good and evil. Just ideas man made up about himself and said they were from God. Nietszche's not big on God.
Get rid of God, he says, and everything will be permitted.
Sure, like people can just... Well, people *can* but...
Maybe he means *people* can. He doesn't know.
Anyway that doesn't help him much. Clark isn't at all sure about the place of God in his life. His parents don't do church. Nothing he's ever read covers the way God feels about aliens.
Or Luthors. God, *Lex*...
It leaves him breathless for a second, the ache of it. Like finding out Lex has cancer or something. That he's going to die. Can't believe there are more tears to leak out of him, but there they are.
And really, Nietszche doesn't help here at all because it only applies to what's morally possible, not what's physically possible. Doesn't even come close to touching on cause and effect.
Which is the thing. What future telling really comes down to if he thinks about it -- nothing but somehow seeing the ultimate effect of years and years and years of cause. Which is why he doesn't get why people have so much difficulty with the idea of it.
Just kind of logical. Which is not helping.
His eyes want to close again. Not used to being tired like this, like his body is full of something thick and heavy and almost liquid. Dragging him down. Sleep would be good, but... he can't.
So what is he going to do? Not just sit here being helpless. He makes himself sit up. Scrubs at his face with his hands.
Cause and effect. Something figurable. Like the future isn't something waiting for them like a monster in a cave but something waiting for them like the top of a set of stairs. If you can figure out what the steps are...
Cause from effect.
He knows the effect. Knows it because he must have seen it a hundred thousand ways. Never exactly the same but the important parts were close enough. The... bad stuff. Sickness and death. The scorched and poisoned earth.
Lex like he'd never wanted to imagine him: powerful, ruthless, careless of the lives he destroyed. Or worse. That smile. Like there was something broken inside him.
Maybe that was one of the steps. Lex is strong but... he's alone. More like an orphan, really than either him or Lana. And maybe...
If it's happening, if all the futures are bad *now* it's maybe because the thing that's broken is already broken. Scrubs his eyes again because Lex really *had* felt broken. Brittle in the truck, odd angles under him on the ground, sliding forward into the curve of Clark's arm like things had come loose inside him. And *god* what if the thing that had broken in him was *this*.
That seeing the future had somehow *made* the future. Did that make any sense at all? He can feel all the pieces of it floating around trying to hook up. Like dumping a jigsaw puzzle in an aquarium. If only his brain could be as strong and fast as the rest of him.
The longing for outside and air and speed hits him like a wave. To *move*. To *do*. He lets it carry him to his feet. Down the stairs. Out the door. Stops once on the edge of the driveway just to look and all is quiet at the house and then before the rush of caught up air finishes slapping up against his back, he's off.
*
Jonathan yawns and rubs his burning eyes. Long night with nothing to do but worry at a problem. Not his favorite late night activity but certainly not an unfamiliar one. Part and parcel of being a farmer and a parent.
Although usually the problems weren't this... desperate. He's never seriously pondered killing anyone before.
Check that. He's never done it with a clear head and the means at his disposal. Oddly enough, the last time had been a Luthor too.
He wishes that were funny. The truth is, he doesn't dislike this young man. Doesn't trust him further than he could spit him, but... Lex has been okay. It's something of a sign of that that he's actually having trouble picturing him the way Clark described him from the visions.
Ruthless, Jonathan could see. And he's got more than a touch of his father's arrogance, even if it is tempered by his easy manners. But the rest: Twisted. Cruel. Evil?
He'd have gone as far as to say that Clark was jumping to conclusions, except for the clear fact that Clark would do anything not to have seen what he claimed he saw.
His son is not a liar.
A lot of weird *stuff* happens around Clark.
There's no question in his mind that Clark's feelings here run deep. And no, he's not happy about that either. Has to wonder if that's part of the reason the thought is thinkable. He's never claimed to be the world's most open minded man. Still, it's not reason enough. Another reason to check himself.
If he could just know what signs he's looking for. It's pretty clear there's no Number of the Beast. Rueful look at all that pink, clean scalp and Lex's eyes blink open.
Blue-gray and not quite there. Maybe. And so damn *young*. Dry tongue dabbing at dry lips. Fatherly instinct makes him want to ask how Lex is feeling, if he should call his father. Instead he feels himself sink back behind his eyes. Acutely aware of the blanket-wrapped shotgun at his feet.
Strange feeling of distance as he watches Lex swallow, try to speak. A nearly silent croak that he doesn't really need to hear as words. It breaks whatever unconscious resolve he'd made not to offer comfort. But not without leaving a residue of anger.
Double-damned Luthor.
"You want some water?" Lex blinks again. A surprisingly surprised look, like maybe he just got in after all. Moment of recognition and he drops his gaze like the sight of Jonathan burns him, nods.
Jonathan thinks about nothing while he runs a glassful, body warm, from the kitchen tap. Brings it back. The hand that reaches for it is damn unsteady but Jonathan has done as much as he's going to. Watches the boy guzzle water way too fast and hopes he's not going to puke it all right up. The boy... *Lex*... looks like shit.
And is already sinking back into unconsciousness with the glass still to his lips. Jonathan barely catches it. Sets it down. Sweat is beading on Luthor's forehead, upper lip. He smells sharply stale. Coppery.
Pale child in his sleep.
This is going to be hard.
He'd say impossible, but the thing is, if it's got to be done...
Clark isn't the one who's going to do it.
And Jonathan gets himself a creepy wave of déjà vu. Lex had *said* that. He'd said to Clark: It isn't going to be you.
In the clock-ticking silence of the living room he realizes that the shotgun would be much too loud.
And the mess. Couldn't do that to Martha. Clark. He'd have to use his hands. Looks at them. Good hands. So far. For now. He's not a killer. Really not. But he'll do what he has to do to protect his family.
Damn.
Why did you kiss my son? Can't quite wrap his head around the idea of a man loving another man like he loves Martha, but he has no trouble imagining anyone loving Clark. Wanting to be around Clark. The kid is special. And Clark... is a teenager. Full of hopes, dreams. Hero worship. Easy for even a smart, strong boy to get confused by sophistication and desire in a pretty package -- didn't I, Nell?
And even he can see the... well, the 'attraction' of Lex. Arlene's sweetness with a steel core and he hasn't thought of her in *years*. Wonders what she would say about all this.
Don't murder my boy, Jonathan.
Right.
He won't. If he has any choice at all, he won't.
And doesn't notice that his eyelids have fallen down and he's sailed off to sea.
*
Running Clark thinks that he thinks of nothing. The air is just some thick, smooth thing he's cutting through. Arms, legs, lungs, heart. Most of his brain caught up in some silent calculation of angles, momentum and speed that he knows his conscious mind hasn't grasped yet. He never bumps into anything. He never stumbles. It's just like flying. Leaves him free and clear to think or not think and not necessarily listen to the rumination in his head.
Just what he needs. And yet, at a certain point, for no given reason he can fathom he drops out of warp, comes to a sudden stop in the middle of a stubbled field. Feels his body absorb the dull wallop that is his lost momentum and waits.
The air is cold and still. He can see his breath -- curling white plumes like pretty ghosts. And there is something. Nagging.
Tries to retrace his mental steps. And that was part of it. Steps. What he was apparently trying to do as he was running -- figure out the way to the top of the stairs. Figure backwards -- the cause or causes from the effect itself and that, he suddenly realizes is impossible.
Well, not with something so simple as a set of stairs where there was really only one kind of thing to get you from one floor to the next. But life wasn't like that. Figuring out what brought a person from one place in time and space to another... that was like trying to predict the weather. Too many variables. Too many possibilities.
Except. The futures he'd seen were all so... similar. War. Plague. Famine and Death. Lex as his mortal enemy, not even knowing it was Clark he hated. Hurt for. Killed for.
A kind of wild hysteria rising in him. Why was it so *bad*? Why, with all the things that could happen between now and *then* weren't there at least some good outcomes. Or even ordinarily crappy outcomes where he ends up as the janitor at Smallville High and Lana marries Whitney and Lex leaves town and never calls him again. The more he thinks about it the more it doesn't make sense that every single future he saw in Lex's head was full of horror.
But they are, and that feels... important.
A dog barks somewhere far away and Clark looks around. Where the hell *is* he anyway? Sweat starting to cool on his face and if the cold isn't exactly bothering him, he's actually aware of it for a change -- which is new. Frowning at the flat, cold place where he's standing. Snow drifted lightly along the dark furrows. These are cornfields sure, but they're not at all familiar. He'd been running pretty darn fast for a pretty long time and actually he's probably miles from home. Definitely out of Lowell County.
It's possible he's not in Kansas anymore.
He really needs to turn around, head back. But that *thing* is nagging at him. Similarity. The way these fields are like the fields at home but not, and how even though you pretty much know that if you plant corn you're going to end up with corn, you still can't predict exact yields or which stalks will get rust or if a tornado will hit your field or your neighbors'.
So.
So if all of Lex's visions of the future are like different cornfields -- similar on one level, totally different on another -- then what he has to figure out first isn't how each vision gets from now to tomorrow but maybe just what's tying them all together. Because cornfields aren't the only fields in the world, so maybe he's only getting a part of the whole picture.
Which is... what? *What*!? He grimaces, rubs his temples with both hands. Wishes it was math. He can *do* math.
Algebra and functions. Calculus. Even fractals...
And he freezes, fingers pressed to his temples, heart suddenly pounding like there's something trapped in his chest and trying to get out.
Even...
Iteration. Bifurcation. Strange attractors.
Butterfly wings flapping in China causing tornadoes in Kansas corn fields.
Sensitive dependence on initial conditions.
These are *Lex's* visions. What Lex knows about the world taken forward this way and that way and the things Lex *doesn't* know... make chaos.
And he's not sure he can believe it just this simple. A problem impossible to solve but so damn easy to fix? And yeah, he's just guessing at the initial condition that needs changing, but it's a pretty targeted guess. The thing Lex never knows, the thing that the lacking of it breaks him, that the having of it could make him... better. Stronger.
Possibly stronger *without* being better but what the hell...
If he's wrong, he's pretty much going to have to kill Lex anyway.
But he isn't wrong. He's never been surer of anything in his life and he can't stop the grin that spreads itself across his stiff cold face as he turns into the wind and runs for home.
*
The first time Lex wakes up the room is spinning and someone who looks like Jonathan Kent gives him a glass of water and tells him to drink it. He does, guzzling, and feels dizzier still. Wonders what the sense of impending doom means, and falls back to sleep with the glass still to his lips.
The second time he wakes...
He's woken up badly before in his life. His late teens were something of a monument to humiliating awakenings, some of them spectacularly public and requiring his father's involvement.
This is...
This is Jonathan Kent's living room. And that *is* Jonathan Kent sitting on a straight backed chair, watching him try not to vomit on the couch.
Mortified doesn't begin to cover it.
"You want more water?" Not unkind and that's enough to make his throat tighten too much to speak. Can only manage one short head shake. Can't look away.
That is Jonathan Kent, and he remembers.... probably not everything. But enough. Swallows a few times. Clears his throat.
"I'll pay for anything I damaged." His voice is weird and raw. He sounds like he's being strangled. Jonathan shifts a little, crosses his arms. Then rubs his hand over his face. He's tired. So on top of... everything... he's kept a hard-working farmer up all night.
Nothing... can begin to cover it. His eyes sting like they want to tear up but there's nothing in them. His teeth try to chatter. Jonathan's eyes on him make him want to pull the blankets over his head, blind himself. He can't even breathe but he has to...
"I don't know what to say..."
"You can start by telling me what this was all about."
Well, of course. Of course.
It calms him. Reassures. The universe is predictably horrible again. He wishes there was coffee. Coffee would... something. And what can he say? There's nothing in there but the truth.
"I just... I just wanted to know," he says, finally. "I *needed* to know... What she saw killed her. I needed to know how bad it really was." His voice turns to air on the last word. Hearing it out loud like that is like being kicked.
"And now you know?" Jonathan asks. Slow nod and Lex can't look away. Slow, cold curl in his belly and Jonathan is leaning forward like he's done so many times...
It slams his heart against the inside wall of his chest and makes his breathing stutter. The future is *now*.
"What is it that you think you know?" he asks. Lex can almost hear the echoes of the other branches. Nexus.
One chance. One chance now to get it right and he wishe he'd had more time. He's not exactly sure how this one goes.
And he can almost hear Heike's Teutonic snarl -- are you planning to fence a brick wall, Luthor? Unlock your *knees*.
Forces himself relax into it, pulls himself up, lifts his chin. Lets the quilt fall off his shoulders.
"I know you have a shotgun in that blanket, Mr. Kent."
To his credit, Jonathan doesn't even flinch.
"Good eyes."
"I know you're not going to use it," he goes on. "You never use it. The mess I guess. The noise. You always use your hands. Just do it."
It takes a second for the words to register but Lex sees the instant that they do. Jonathan... laughs. Shakes his head.
"You know I'm not fond of Luthors," he says. "But I've never considered hunting them down like dogs. Not seriously anyway." Lex doesn't return the laugh. He doesn't have to and Kent lets the false face fall away to show the tired man underneath.
"I'm not going to be your executioner, Lex."
But Lex *knows* his lines.
"You should," he says. "I'm going to be yours. I'm going to kill you and your wife and your..." He stops. Clark is... still not there.
"My son?" Jonathan asks.
Lex knows what he should say. He knows what pushes who to what. Seen it only a few times but enough to let him know this is the *best* of what he can hope for... if he doesn't want to accept that he is *that*. That... monster.
He really doesn't.
"I don't... know."
"So it's not all predetermined." Just like being in a movie he's seen a hundred times. Repeating the dialogue in synch with the actors.
It's just a step to the left...
"Oh no, there's got to be a hundred thousand ways I kill the world. Which way are the second thoughts going, Mr. Kent? Did Clark tell you what I do to Lana Lang?"
"Lex..."
"You don't get it, do you. I don't have the courage to do it myself, or I would. Unfortunately if you let me go, by this time tomorrow I'll have talked myself into the idea that I can spin this. That I won't be *that* bad. You know how it will go... Or no, you don't. But I do. You understand? I. Do. And Clark does too. Which is why sometimes, if I say the right thing. If I push the right way..."
"I won't do it."
Lex gives him a tiny, confident shrug.
"You always say that, too..."
"Really, and what do I say next?"
Lex steels himself. Gets up. The room is rocking like a ship but Heike's lessons have paid off. Lex Luthor is stable on any surface.
And he knows it's going to hurt and it's really hard to make himself move into Jonathan's reach but he lets his feet do it for him. Close enough to smell the man's sweat before he leans in.
"I'm not going to kill your son," he says, low and hoarse and just as rough as he feels. "I'm going to f--"
"Don't." The hand comes up faster than he was expecting. Jonathan shoving up and back and he's on the floor so fast and hard it doesn't hurt a bit. Scrambles up, just out of reach. He's got to get it out.
"*Fuck* him, Jon. He's got a *great* ass. A cocksucker's mouth. I'm going to--"
*There's* the punch. On his back and seeing stars and now it hurts. Now it hurts. Just a little more and he scrambles up, gets hit again -- tastes blood and Kent has him by the shirt and this is it, he remembers, this is--
--nothing. Waiting. Breathing hard and he can't... he has to... Opens his eyes.
And Kent is just looking at him, one fist twisted in Lex's shirt, the other poised. And lowered slowly. Kent shaking his head. Letting him go and turning to sit beside him on the floor.
Rage so sudden he thinks he'll have to puke it up or scream.
"The *fuck*?! You *asshole*. Do you think I'm joking? Do you think this is a *joke*..."
"Forget it, son," Kent says.
But he can't, he can't... wraps his arms around himself and feels the awful tightness in his chest. His last chance. No one to stop him now, they're going to let him sail right off the edge.
Gets hauled up roughly into a sitting hug for his trouble, folded into arms he doesn't understand. Can't do this. Can't take any more of this. Sobs that tear him open but not enough to stop this. Nothing's going to stop this. Punching out and kicking to no effect and Jonathan Kent is some fucking wall he can't even break himself against.
"What's going on?" Comes in with a shocking cold breath of air. Clark. It freezes him.
"Misunderstanding," Jonathan Kent says. "I think we're okay now. Lex?"
"Oh. Yeah." The shift is too surreal for words. Lying in Jonathan Kent's warm, fatherly embrace. Death. Weepy destroyer of worlds. "Just... great." He opens his eyes. Clark is rosy-cheeked, breathless. Too beautiful for words. God, the things he'd... He pulls away from Kent, Sr. and sits up, back against the couch. Tries to keep his head up. Okay, maybe he *can* do this.
"--awake?"
"Hm?"
"Lex?" Kneeling in front of him. Their eyes meet for a second and no, he can't. Has to look away.
"I need to get home," he says. Maybe he'll have the strength.
"No," Clark answers.
Anger rises in him again. Under*stand* this, dammit.
"I *need*--"
"No. Listen to me." Clark smells like outside. Like snow and sheepskin and fresh, clean sweat. He smells like the immediate present -- the one that's already shattered, even though the light of the event won't reach their eyes for another couple of years.
"It doesn't--"
"Where have you been, son?" Brief, duck of a smile but Clark's eyes never leave his face.
"Iowa. Or... maybe Wyoming. I wasn't paying attention." And Jonathan's sudden tension speaks... indecipherable volumes. "Don't kill me, dad, okay? I think I've figured this thing out."
Maybe all the Kents are just crazy. Maybe that explains it. The look in Clark's eyes. The smile. The hand he's holding out. Lex looks at it.
"What? You didn't see enough last time?"
"Yeah, but you didn't. Do you know anything about chaos theory?"
"I..." Not what he was expecting. Does Clark think he's going to help? "What the hell difference does it make?"
"All those futures, all those things you saw. Wait--" as Lex closes his eyes, turns his head away. "Wait. Listen. The basics. Complex systems are highly dependent on initial conditions, right?"
"I guess."
"Initial conditions. When you took that drug. What you knew then. Who you were at that exact moment. What you were feeling. That was your initial condition."
"There were more futures than there were seconds in a day, Clark."
"Right, but, Lex, they were all the same. I mean, okay in a really infinite universe, things are going to turn out happy at least once, aren't they?"
"Someone else's universe."
"Do you believe that?"
"I don't... know. Clark, *please*..."
"Just hang on. There's a point to this, I swear." And Clark looks at his father. Who sits up. Super tense. More Kent weirdness. He can't imagine Lionel anywhere in this scenario, least of all sitting on the floor giving a damn about what he's going to say.
"Clark..." Seriously warning tone.
"I know what I'm doing, Dad."
"What's that?" Lex asks. "Changing my future?"
"Our future. And I really hope so, yeah." And he takes Lex's hand and holds....
Shock of contact. Milder than before but it's surprise enough to realize he still has Formula #664 in his system. And he's back in hell. Visions rolling over him. Things he just can't bear to see. He struggles. Tries to pull his hand away but no, Clark's grip is iron. And Clark's in close, lips against his ear.
Whispering warm buzz of words.
"Twelve years ago," Clark says. "The meteor shower. Remember that?" He does. He does. A rain of fire. Thunder of black dust and pain. The end of everything he knew.
"I know," Clark says. "Well, that was me..."
And tells him more, and tells him more --
-black fields shift to gold-
-smoke clears, soldiers rise, return home-and Lex can only listen, clutch the hand that is his sudden lifeline to a future where he knows Clark and Clark knows him and they have lives and work and ordinary fights; strange adventures, friends, foes. Pain, yes but ordinary pain. Sometimes kisses.
Sometimes something so purely love it makes him weep.
And when he can finally open up his eyes Clark is watching him, right there, little smile that just says: see...?
And for the first time ever, he really does.
*END*