The Thin Ice Kryptokitten Thanks to J. for the speedy beta. Without you, who’s bitch would I be? “Don’t be surprised when a crack in the ice, Appears under your feet. You slip out of your depth and out of your mind, With your fear flowing out behind you, As you claw the thin ice.” - “The Thin Ice”, by Pink Floyd, from The Wall I’ve missed something. The phrase is so cliched and overused, but he truly was a sight for sore eyes. The last three months had changed him: his hair was a bit longer, he’d grown a bit broader, his face was less rounded and made more of hard planes like I always imagined the rest of his body to be. The lucent eyes and radiant smile were the same; I could tell he was genuinely happy to see me. That was the first time I had smiled since getting on that plane three months before, here now, feeling so warm in his arms. At just the right height for my chin to fit perfectly in the curve connecting his thick shoulder to his neck, it seemed as though I was built to be held by him. 5 o’clock shadow at 1 o’clock dusted his jaw - incongruent with his age but appropriate to the body mature beyond his years - and the scrape of short hairs against my skull felt more like a comfort than an annoyance. Coming into the Kents’ home a few days after, he looked much the same, an expression of happy surprise exchanged for one of relief as I informed them they could keep their home. The same face I kept in mind as I performed for my father; told him I wanted to join him at the throne before the business world. An impetus for my pleased expression as I shook his hand and stepped into his embrace, warm thoughts of Clark keeping down the reflexive shiver as my father’s arms came around me. Maybe things shouldn’t have been well, but they should have been getting better. Over the weeks I reclaimed my life, the changing leaves a measure of my continual return to my previous routine. The differences were few: visits to Metropolis were more frequent, the city in a state of almost celebration at the apparent disappearance of Morgan Edge (and what a last name for a crime boss, speaking of cliches), and I saw Clark less as he helped his family rehabilitate the farm. Still, I made sure to meet Clark at least once a week. My office was always the place of choice, as the Talon had become off limits. Hearing that Clark had broken romantic ties with Lana had shocked me to the core, but the only explanation I got was “Neither of us could be what the other needed.” Putting need before want was something most 17 year olds weren’t apt to do, and I’d have been more impressed if it hadn’t seemed to wear on Clark so much. The combination of the break up, the farm repairs, and something else I couldn’t put my finger on were leeching off his usually energized demeanor. His voice took up a permanent roughness, and his movements became weary instead of comfortably supine. There was also a physical deterioration, something that could easily be missed if one wasn’t watching. His face looked less angular and more gaunt, and his shoulders grew less thick and more sharp. The drape of his shirts became more awkward and he started habitually pulling at the waistband of his jeans. Then this morning I caught his gaze and noticed his eyes had lost their lucidity to become bleary with distance. Sometime during autumn, I missed something. The Talon hasn’t changed - the nearly abrasive brightness a warm contrast to the cold of the impending winter sweeping across the landscape. Lana and Chloe are on opposite sides of the counter, Lana wiping the faux marble and speaking to Chloe who nods or laughs between sips from her mug. Lana sees me first and smiles, brilliant but only a shadow of Clark’s, or at least what Clark’s used to be. Before I can become too maudlin, Chloe calls me back to the present. “Hey, Lex, how’s our resident captain of industry?” “Not up to the title, but I’m hoping to fix that,” I say with a little nod at Lana, and she busies herself making a double espresso, my usual. “How are things in the realm of journalism? I’ve read your column at the Planet – impressive.” She has the modesty to blush and shift her gaze briefly. “Well, between that, AP courses, and an understaffed Torch, time has been tight. The long weekend coming up will be very welcome.” “The Torch has been lacking in participants?” “Yeah – Pete has really thrown himself into his work at the mayor’s office, and,” she gives Lana a surreptitious glance and softens her voice a bit, “Clark’s been kind of throwing himself into extra chores and classes and anything he can get his hands on to keep to himself.” She pauses for a swallow of her latte, then sighs. “I’m starting to worry about him. He’s so…sad…all the time, really quiet and unobtrusive. I almost wish he’d be like he was in Metropolis again – I’d rather see him angry than hurting, you know?” Lana comes back now with a Styrofoam cup and a grin, and I thank her and motion with a nod for Chloe to follow me to the nearest booth. She smiles at Lana in farewell then joins me, sitting on the bench across the table. “So, I wasn’t aware Clark had spent time in the city.” She looks truly surprised, on the cusp of disbelief. “Really? He never said anything?” “When we meet he just talks about school or the farm.” “Wow. I can’t believe he never mentioned it. Almost the entire time you were gone he was there, he left the day you got married. It took a while to find him – he just took off without telling anyone. I never really found out why.” She drinks again, and I can see her worry truly coming to the fore. “Whatever it was, it’s still bothering him. Most people don’t see it, but I do – he’s so tired, all the time, and he never really smiles, and he’s getting thin.” I can see she’s growing upset, and I take her hand in a gesture of comfort. “I’m not sure what to do now, because he just won’t tell me anything.“ Pleading blue eyes pull up to me. “Can you talk to him, Lex? You’re his best friend; maybe he’ll tell you something.” ‘His best friend’ – I want to smile at that, but I’m still mired with concern. “I don’t know if he would, Chloe. He didn’t even tell me he’d run away.” “Please, Lex…try?” I can’t refuse her, not outright. “I’ll try. But I can’t promise anything more.” The relief is palpable. “Thank you, Lex.” Three months in Metropolis, and God knows why. Somehow, I’ve missed something. Appreciation for the seasons came with knowledge of my heritage. Knowing how lucky I am to be here, to have what I do; everything natural is beautiful. Even the tornadoes that sometimes touch down nearby offer a kind of beauty, awesome and stunning in their size, their power. Autumn was always a time of change, when the farmers prepare for harvest and the land burns with color: absolute in its resplendence. This year is different. This year, it feels like the earth is blazing with the last throws of agony before death. This summer, I felt the same, and now, I’m degrading into personal winter. I’d say I was sick, but I have no idea how, or why, or with what. Last year I wasn’t actually ill, but reacting to an unearthly toxin. I’m tired, an unrelenting fatigue. Not sleepy, or mentally weary, though I’m that, too. Running home, lifting the tractor – things I could always do with ease leave me feeling spent. For the first time in years I need an alarm clock to wake me in the morning. Autumn may be chilled, but even the coldest winter hasn’t bothered me for some time, and yet…I can’t get warm enough. Two pairs of socks, so thick I can barely get my feet into boots, and my toes are like ice. A long T-shirt, flannel, sweatshirt, and coat, and I’m huddled in the barn loft, shivering as I practically curl around the space heater I bought. I never indulge in the house. The Kents don’t need to worry anymore – I’ve brought enough stress upon them. Mom would do the reflexive motherly thing and touch the back of her hand to my forehead, feel the way the skin burns so hot there. It’s like my own body is mocking me; always so warm but never letting me feel it. It’s bad enough that I have to see that look of worry cross her features when I get up from the dinner table with half my plate untouched. I can get away with telling her I’m eating breakfast and lunch at school, but I know she sees the wane in my appetite. So I just pile on more clothing and hope she doesn’t see me fading. Outside dad is preparing the fields for what promises to be a fierce winter. I wonder at his emotional stamina – from a treacherous son, to almost loosing the farm, to loosing his unborn child…and still he works under the muted autumn sun with a smile because he’s truly content. I almost choke on guilt over the envy I have for him. Somehow, something has gotten to me. Somehow, I am sick, and in an extreme, slow way. I can’t understand why bullets don’t touch me, but illness can. Somehow, I’ve missed something. Wednesday became our regular meeting time, though I never understood why. I’d look over my father’s reports while Clark splayed across the floor with his homework. The sound of his cheap ballpoint scraping across the paper was always constant, his mind moving quickly in an impressive display, so that he never needed pause to consider an answer. When he did work for his Advanced Placement English class the rhythm would occasionally be broken, only to scratch out something unsatisfactory or to tap out meter on the carpet with his fingers when he wrote poetry. Tonight my mind strayed from the drift of paper in front of me to watch Clark work. He took to his academia with gusto mirroring that of my own school days, delving into a concentration that’s difficult to break him from. He’s oblivious to my watching, so mired in his assignment, and I take the chance to abandon my own and sit back to look. Laid out on his stomach, his eyes are squinted with concentration and he mindlessly presses the toes of his boots into the carpet, levering his knees slightly off the floor. As he writes his face grows closer to the paper as though falling into the words, until finally his cheek is pressed into the paper, eyes following the flow of ink as it marks down the page. When he begins a new paragraph he licks his lips, just the tip of his tongue thoughtlessly darting out for a moment in a move that’s obtusely sexy. The pause is so slight most would miss it, and he blinks over the next word like he’s been snapped back into the reality surrounding him. I wonder what has brought him back, and then he shivers. “Cold?” He lifts his head, eyes unfocused and unseeing, then he blinks again and they clear. The corner of his mouth turns up in a sheepish half smile. “Yeah, a little bit.” “Sorry, the castle really isn’t the best venue during the cold months. Stone is hardly a prime insulator.” “Stone really isn’t prime for anything but keeping out an invading army.” “True.” I just grin down at him and he smiles up, and for a moment I’m lost in the silent reverie. Then I remember and pull myself up to my feet and roll my wrists, working out the tension from hours of writing. “I’ll go find a blanket for you.” “Lex, you really don’t-“ “Please, it’s alright. Let the waited on rich boy in his cold castle feel efficient.” He smiles a concession, and I return it briefly before wandering out into the corridor. Not five minutes later I’ve returned with a wool blanket I procured from one of the unused guestrooms, and I see he’s gone back to his work. I approach him to offer the blanket, and it’s then I see that he isn’t writing but has simply fallen asleep with his face atop his notebook. I’m torn between covering him and letting him sleep or waking him and sending him home to bed. His brow is drawn together in a pained expression as he dozes, like his guard only dissolves enough when he’s sleeping to let his emotions show through to his face. It makes me wonder how many of his little smiles have been part of an act, a cheerful mask to draw shadows over the truth of his feelings. I wonder if he learned how to make one the same way I did: out of past necessity. I wonder what’s burning through him enough to tear him down both inside and out. I decide he could use a break from pretense, and I get down on one knee and drape the blanket over him, resisting the urge to tuck the edges in around his form. Despite misgivings, I do indulge the impulse to brush back a bit of hair that has fallen over his eyes, and when my fingers graze his skin it feels as though they’ve been singed. Curious now, I lay my entire palm flat on his forehead, and find I can only leave it there for a few moments before the heat becomes uncomfortable. Now I shake him lightly, deciding that if he’s sick I need to send him home to his mother and the comforts of his room to get some proper rest. When he doesn’t rouse, I shake a little harder, and a half a minute later I realize I’m shaking him hard enough to make his teeth clack together and still, he won’t wake up. Shit. Having not dealt with an ill person since my mother, I’m not sure what to do, especially if someone is unconscious with fever. He might need a hospital at this point, but I’m still not sure, so not knowing what else to do, I call the Kents. Martha picks up, which I’m glad for. While there seems to be little, if no, bad blood left between myself and Mr. Kent, it will take time before I feel completely comfortable with him. “Hello, Mrs. Kent, it’s Lex Luthor.” “I should think so – we don’t know another Lex.” I smile a little on my end at her teasing correction. So like a mother. “Clark is here and he seems to have fallen asleep, but I discovered he has a pretty high fever and now I can’t wake him.” There’s a moment of silence like she’s mulling over her options then responds, “Jonathan and I are coming by to get him. Thank you, Lex.” For the next twenty minutes I busy myself gathering Clark’s things together and blotting his face with a towel I’ve wet with cold water. Jonathan comes into the room on his own, says Martha is waiting in the truck and thanks me for calling, then we both lift Clark and place an arm around each of us to effectively drag him out to the drive. He’s lighter than I expected, but he’s still a big guy and it takes some effort to get him into the truck cabin. Inside Martha is wrapping her arms around him, both to hold him upright and for her own peace of mind, outwardly fretting as she feels the heat emanating from his body. “Thank you, Lex.” “Of course. If you like, I could give you the name of a good-“ “No, Lex, that’s alright. We’ll use our family doctor.” I nod and stand there a moment, repressing the urge to fidget. I never know how to react when there isn’t anything more for me to contribute. Jon’s voice brings my head up again, and he just gives me an understanding smile, then thanks me again. I simply nod once more. I stand in the drive until I can no longer make out the glow of the taillights, then head back inside, shivering a bit in the cold castle air. Before I open my eyes, I notice the light filtering through them, giving my vision a red cast. When I do open them, I’m expecting to see the light of Lex’s fireplace, but instead I see a cracked plaster ceiling and realize that the light is from the sun outside my room. When I sit up, it’s as if I can feel every muscle in my body, and all of them ache. The covers fall away, a number of thick blankets, and I realize I’m in my boxers and very, very cold. Judging from the light, I can tell it must be afternoon, and I hysterically wonder what day it is. At least this time there were no strange dreams about a girl in a coma. In fact, there were no dreams at all. Once I’ve pulled on some jeans and a sweatshirt, I venture down stairs, moving slowly because I feel a little dizzy. I’m not halfway down when Mom appears at the bottom, and she looks so relieved. “Clark, what are you doing out of bed? Get back upstairs. If you’re hungry, I can – “ “No, Mom, thanks, I’m not hungry. Just…really confused. And a little nauseous.” I take a seat at the table and she’s right there, feeling my forehead. “You’re not as warm, but you’ve still got a pretty high fever. I hope you’re not getting sick again. You haven’t been in the storm cellar recently, have you?” I take her hand to make her stop and try on a shaky smile. “Don’t worry, Mom, I’m pretty sure I haven’t been poisoned by alien toxins. Besides, I haven’t really had a reason to be in the storm cellar, anyway.” I wish I hadn’t said that, because it makes her look a little sad, and thinking about it makes my stomach roll. I’m out of my chair and back upstairs in seconds – not nearly as fast as I can be but all I can manage right now – and I get to have my first experience with throwing up. Mom must have called for Dad, because when she comes in after me he’s right behind her, handing me a glass of water and a tissue while Mom pets my hair. I can tell she’s terrified, and I can’t stand to see it, so I grasp at anything I can think of. “Maybe there are some more solar flares or something. Or maybe… isn’t there supposed to be a lunar eclipse this week? Maybe that’s throwing me off somehow.” Dad nods a few times, more for his benefit than Mom’s or mine, and sort of mutters, “Yeah, yeah that could be it. Maybe I can find something about it online or at the library.” While he thinks of some plan of action, Mom wraps her arms about my rib cage and helps me up. “Well, there isn’t really anything we can do for now, so why don’t you go back to bed and get some sleep.” “Yeah, okay. Though I have to ask – it is only Thursday, right?” My attempt to lighten the mood has worked some, and Mom smiles and assures me that no, I haven’t slept through any days this time. Dad smiles and winks at me and I feel a little better. Still, bed sounds like a really good idea. I don’t know how to work it, having bought it simply because it’s the most expensive and hopefully therefore the best of it’s kind, and I can’t help but think that it looks right standing by the bay windows, a little piece of him. The barrel of the telescope is wide, which the salesman assured me was a good thing, and it feels smooth under the pads of my fingers when I run my hand down the length. I’ll know how to work it soon – Clark will never use it if he thinks that it isn’t actually mine, that I bought it just for him. It should look awkward; something so sleek and modern in the antique environment of my bedroom, but it just fits so well standing beside the table where I keep my mother’s picture. Mother would have absolutely adored Clark. The way he cares so deeply for those around him, the dry humor that he sometimes lets out when he has his guard down, the open minded nature and the faith he puts in people. She was the same way, especially when it came to my father, putting her faith in him to become a good man. Just like Clark puts the same kind of faith in me. I hope that unlike in her case, his faith is not misguided. It’s Saturday, three days since he got sick, and I wonder if I should call him to see how he is doing, or if it would be appropriate to drop by the farm. I feel like Chloe or Pete or Lana would just stop by, bring him his homework and maybe something simple to cheer him up, maybe some interesting school gossip, or a funny movie to watch. I can’t offer the first, though I have kept tabs with the school to find out if he had gone that week, but I can take care of the second. I have all the Monty Python movies on DVD, but figure he’s more likely to have a VCR, and I grab a copy of three on video. I don’t want to risk overdoing a simple gesture by bringing my own disk player. Satisfied that I’ve not only found a gift - even if it’s just a few videos on loan - that I can give him, but have found an excuse to both stop by the farm and spend some time with him, I slide into the Spider, movies in hand, and head out to route 8. Martha answers the door, and I can see by her smile that she’s pleased I came. I hold up the box and say, “I come bearing good tidings and vulgar British comedy.” She rolls her eyes in a gesture that’s reminiscent of Clark, and holds the screen door open for me to enter. “Clark’s up in his room stubbornly refusing my attempts to feed him. Maybe you’ll have better luck getting him to eat something.” She makes the comment with good humor, and I take it as a sign that he’s doing better. It’s the second door at the top of the stairs, after the bathroom and before the Kent’s bedroom at the end of the hall. The door is open a crack, but I knock lightly as I enter. The room looks a lot like I had expected: small, with star charts and snap shots on the walls rather than posters of girls or sports stars. The bed itself is just as small, and even sitting up with his legs bent, his feet almost hang off the end. A twin mattress was never meant to harbor a broad, 6’3” farmboy. The bed is made with a number of blankets, topped with a quilt I’m sure Martha made herself. He has an eclectic assortment of pillows behind him propping him up, and there’s an ancient looking clock radio on the plain bedside table next to a sandwich and glass of orange juice, both untouched. The only odd thing about the room is the number of strange cracks and dents on the ceiling, too big to be made by any ball he might have been bouncing off it. But I’m not here to make inquiries. “Lex! Hey!” The greeting is enthusiastic but quiet, his voice scratchy like…well, like someone who’s been very sick, and I realize I’ve never seen Clark sick before. His face is pale and shadowed with stubble and fatigue, and when he’s not his usual clean shaven self he looks a good five years older. “Clark, glad to see you’re feeling better.” Though besides being awake and aware, he actually doesn’t look so good. Still beautiful, and besides the skin tone and the rough voice, he seems outwardly fine, but I’ve always been one to notice the details. Things like the tight hold he keeps on his coverings because he’s actually quite cold, or the fact that he isn’t actually holding his own head up, but letting it be held erect by the mountain of pillows beneath him. “Glad someone thinks so. Dad won’t let me help with the chores, and Mom won’t even let me out of the bed.” “She did give me a mission to make sure you ate.” The smile flickered a bit, but he was determined. “Just haven’t been that hungry. Lying here in bed all day, there aren’t many reasons to work up an appetite.” I can think of lots of ways to help him work up an appetite while lying in bed all day, and I can’t believe I’m thinking about that when he’s laying there sick. I gesture with my head at a little 12” inch screen TV sitting atop a VCR that looks like it could be older than Clark. “That thing work?” “To play movies, yes. Though if you wanted to record anything, you’d be out of luck.” “I brought the classics: The Meaning of Life, The Holy Grail, and And Now For Something Completely Different.” “Great, I could use a distraction. Put in the last one, I haven’t seen the whole thing. You’ll stay and watch with me, won’t you?’ As though I would refuse. “Of course.” We pass the afternoon watching the movies and talking, me sitting on the corner of the bed, and by the time I leave the color has come back to his face. After Lex left I felt so much better, I decided to take my chances outside, and as it turns out I probably should have done so earlier. Sitting on the porch catching the last sunlight of the day, I felt energized and well enough to eat dinner, and I wonder just how much the sun really does have to do with my powers. I could quickly learn to be a sun worshipper. Mom seemed so happy to see me feeling well, and it made me feel even less ill in turn. Dad told me that the lunar eclipse is tomorrow, and that might have something to do with why I’m feeling better now. I’m not so sure, but it’s the closest thing we have to an answer. Lex invited me to come by tomorrow to watch the eclipse, but I had to refuse, with all the work I have to make up from missing two days of school. Junior year is a bitch, but now is the most important time for me to do well. Lex looked a little disappointed, or at least I like to think so, and told me he’d try and stop by again before our usual Wednesday meeting. I hope he does. Chloe had called after dinner and asked me to join her and Lana at the fair tomorrow, and while I haven’t seen her much outside of school, I still have that work to do, and I’m really in no mood for a carnival. Just a little too upbeat for my tastes. She understood, though, telling me that she and Lana would just make a girl’s day out of it, and that I had better be feeling better on Monday because if I wasn’t there to help her lay out the paper she would be forced to kick my ass to Edge City. It’s her own special way of saying she’s worried and hopes I get better, and I feel lucky to have her as my friend, to care about me, even after the way I treated her this summer. Thinking about it makes me feel a bit ill again, so I head upstairs to an early nights sleep. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be able to help Dad. That fucking bitch. I should have known. Clark went back to school Monday, looking somewhat pallid, but smiling nonetheless. After my conversation with Chloe a few weeks back, I decided to have us meet for our usual Wednesday rendezvous at the Talon, encourage him to get away from homework and socialize, but when I got there I found Lana had closed the coffee house. When I got inside, I found her cleaning out the register, dressed like a Nicodemus flashback, and spouting pity-please lines about being alone. Well, fuck you. My mother died when I was old enough to really know her, my father is a total bastard, and my wife tried her valiant best to kill me. But you don’t see me crying on about it. Teenage rebellion, I can understand, even respect. But not this sanctimonious bullshit. Then Clark comes in, asking what happened, looking 12 minutes from death, and then runs off when my back is turned, undoubtedly to save the fairy princess from herself, again. And that irritates me more than Lana stealing the meager cash, being dumb enough to take from the register rather than the safe. Now, because of her antics, I’ve lost the only time I get to have with Clark, and for that, the bitch will pay. Maybe work with my lawyers; get her some nice time in a janitorial job, dirty up the little fairy princess. God DAMN her. I hear her coming up the stairs, and I’d rather not see her right now. I came out to the loft to hide, not wanting to see the worried look on my mother’s face while I sat inside and sweated out my fever breaking. I’d rather she not know I was having fevers again in the first place. Seeing Lana only makes me feel cold again, but I resist the urge to shiver and keep my sleeves rolled up. Sitting next to her, listening to her talk, I try my best to be understanding and honest, while inside I’m seething, frustration burning white and making my skin crawl like every vein is trying to find it’s way out from under the flesh. I can only try to explain myself so many times before I want to bluntly tell her to back off, that being my friend doesn’t give her the right to my secrets, but means she should respect them and give me space. Chloe has, especially recently, and having her kiss me like that in the records room, fun and furtive instead of painfully sincere and angst-laden, made me think twice about the choice I made when it came to my two female friends. Chloe has had problems just like Lana, but she doesn’t dwell on them, always tries to be a good friend, always knows how to balance caring concern and dramatic conversation with simple, light hearted interaction. In these ways, she reminds me so much of Lex. I’m open and honest with my emotions, telling Lana as much truth as I can while telling her I understand that I have no place asking her to stop her life for me. Then she gives me this biting remark and stands up to walk away, just LEAVING it like that, with these harsh words like I’m so self involved and being such a bad friend by having my own life outside of her while she demands she has her own outside of me, and I’ve fucking HAD it. When I stand the room seems to pitch and roll, but I hold my ground and my voice comes out unfamiliarly low and deadly calm when I practically whisper. “Fuck YOU.” She’s half way down the stairs and stops cold, turning to me looking much more shocked than angry. I’ve always tempered my anger around her, only ever coming close to letting it out that time after the Ian incident, and I’ve never cursed in front of her, much less AT her. “Wh – what?” “You have NO idea what I keep from you Lana, and I ask, I PLEAD for you to respect that I can’t tell you things, and you see how god damned much it TEARS me up to have to do it, and still, you just push and push until I have no choice but to turn back and push you away, because you can’t back OFF, and then you have the fucking GAUL to come into MY home and talk to me like that, just totally DISMISS me like that? How DARE you.” By now I’ve walked down the stairs, and I’m one step above her, looking at her diagonally across the step as she presses herself against the rail, looking startled, pissed, and indignant. This time, however, I’m not giving her the chance. “If I told you my secrets, then there are two options. Now, assuming that they alone don’t send you running off screaming, or simply just loathing my existence, I’ve given you information that people would kill to have. Fuck, that goddamn reporter almost KILLED my dad last year because of it, and would have if Lex hadn’t, thank god, shown up and shot him first.” That makes Lana’s eyes widen a bit, and I know I have her rapt attention. “So someone comes after you, determined to make you talk. And now we come to our two scenarios. One: You don’t talk out of some perverse noble loyalty, and you’re dead.” She gets a little pale with that one, and her mouth drops open a little. “Then, there’s number two. You talk, and they come after me themselves, or get the federal government to do it, because they would LOVE to get their hands on me, too, and my parents lives are threatened and at the LEAST ruined while I’m carted off to a lab never to see daylight again and most likely end up dead, split open on a slab somewhere.” She’s shaking a bit now, looks a little bit queasy, and I’m sure it’s not even half as bad as I feel now. “Clark –“ “Just fucking shut UP for once!” My voice is deep and growly like it would get when I had that red ring on. She’s never heard it before, and she’s practically one with the wood of the rail. “I used to think just like you, Lana. Used to think that by keeping secrets, I was being a bad friend, a total asshole, and so you know what? I tell Pete. And not even two days later, Dr. Hamilton has him tied up in his barn, about to kill him, and if I hadn’t found him at the last minute, he would be dead right now.” I’ve gotten real close, my voice really low and quiet, and that seems to scare Lana more than anything. Her face is wet with tears, and so is mine, and my voice cracks when I say, “I can’t do this anymore, Lana. It hurts so, so fucking much. So just…just get out.” With that, I continue down the stairs, hardly able to lift my feet with the intense, searing pain rushing through every part of me, and I just make it outside before I’m vomiting in the brush beside the barn. Everything is dark like the sky is clouded over, but when I look up at the rotating heavens, I see it’s totally clear. There’s a small hand on my arm, and the way it makes my shirt rub my skin makes me wonder if that’s what fire feels like to a human, and when I fall to my knees I hear someone shout my name in the distance, even though it’s coming from just behind me, before I pass out. I never realized how many hours, minutes, seconds there were in one night. The first time I woke I was greeted with the scent of burning cotton. Opening my eyes as wide as possible, just enough to let in a thin strip of moon light, I could make out the form of my father. He sat in a chair by the bed, wearing work gloves and patting me down with a wet washcloth. Trying to sit up only caused a bright pain to flash down my spine and through my extremities, and when I turned my head to vomit he was ready with a trashcan. It wasn’t until I was drifting off again that I realized the scent was from my sheets being singed by the heat of my own skin. Every time thereafter the parent in the room alternated: mom, dad, mom, dad…all night long. Two times, maybe more, both were there, once talking too low for me to hear, the other just Dad holding my mom while she cried. Whenever I would try to reach out to them I’d feel that glaring pain. After the first three times I vomited there was nothing left and I would lie there and dry heave for minutes on end, and every minute felt thrice as long. The last time I woke there was an early light filling the room and I could hear Dad telling Mom that he would have to go find his old work gloves for the morning chores. His new ones had holes burned in the fingertips. It’s been more than a week since I’ve spent any time with Clark, and I’m really feeling the loss today, especially after a truly long-ass conversation with my father, and I’m ready for some coffee. I take my time getting to the Talon, not thrilled at the prospect of seeing Lana, but knowing I need to give her a show of support by getting my caffeine fix there. I consider stopping by the Kent farm on the way, but I want Clark to think WELL of me, and I feel like “morning Lex” isn’t the best way to go about it. Instead I cruise down every paved back road I can find, imagining the scenario if I had gone to see him. It’s growing cold out, but bailing this and pitching that can make someone work up a sweat. So I see myself pulling up, one with The Luthor Cool, and he’s…well, he’s doing something ‘farmy’…and he’s got his shirt off and tucked into his back pocket, the sun just high enough in the sky so that I can see the shine of moisture on his skin. There’s a smudge of dirt over his left cheekbone, drawing my attentions to it’s exquisite shape, and as he lifts and throws he makes a low, rumbling sound of strain that’s just like I imagine he’d sound when he’s fucking. His breath comes out in harsh pants, and I can see each puff form in the cold air, and all that heavy breathing makes his lips dry, so he keeps licking at them, just a little slip of tongue so they’re wet and slick like the rest of him. Every movement makes the hard bulge of impressive musculature pull and twist and flex like the most perfect machine. And when he sees me, instead of that dazzling smile, his eyes get dark and his breathing grows more labored and he wipes the sweat off his brow with one long, long finger then he sucks it in past those slick, swollen lips and - And I’m switching back to drive the last three miles again because I can’t walk into the Talon stone hard. I pull up to the curb a half an hour later than originally planned, my face red from the beating of cold air I took by putting the top of the Porsche down two miles back to help literally cool my libido. Inside, business is as expected, half the tables filled with teenagers in jocular groups or in studious isolation. A slip of cold air sneaks past the door as it closes behind me, sliding fast along the floor to curl up under my coat, making me shiver as I stand there pulling off my gloves. It’s in sharp contrast with the Talon air that’s like coffee: warm, and rich with scent. I nod at the waitress behind the counter as I make my way to the back offices, intent on greeting the fairy princess. My shoes stick a bit where the floor is often neglected by mopping, but I just bite my lip and pretend I can’t feel the linoleum sucking on the soles. The door is open and I step inside to find Lana putting on her coat. “Going somewhere?” She lifts her eyes so I can see the red over white and the dark shadows underneath. “Clark’s sick. I’m going to see him.” She walks past me, but I gently catch her by the shoulder. “Hold on, now…sit, talk to me.” She nods mechanically and sits behind the desk, still clutching her coat about her. I sit in the cheap plastic thing opposite her. “Okay, first…what happened to Clark?” “I’m not sure. I went to see him yesterday and I, I said some things that maybe I shouldn’t have, and he got so mad – I’ve never really seen him mad – and he starts to walk away, and just…collapsed. I screamed for the Kents and tried to help him up, but his skin was so hot, and he just passed out.” The news is like acid crawling up to my mouth, and I have to swallow it down before speaking. “Well, he was sick not too long ago…he might just be having a relapse.” “Lex, he could hardly breathe, and his skin…so hot, so, so hot…” “Did you drive in this morning?” She looks up at the change of subject. “No, I walked.” “Come, let me give you a ride to the farm.” So she picks up her bag again, leaves instructions for the waitress, and we go out to the car. “Isn’t it a little cold to have the top down?” “I was just a little warm driving over.” I can’t seem to stop shivering. My first impulse was to look and see if Mom or Dad had left the window open, but after seeing it firmly shut I remembered that I don’t get cold anymore. This morning, though, I can’t. Stop. Shivering. So I just pull the blankets more tightly around me and pray for the day to pass quickly, because when noon comes around and the sunlight is strongest I’m hoping to make it outside and try to soak up some. Dad left for a cattle auction earlier after I assured him several times that I would be just fine if he went, please don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll be feeling much better by the time he gets home tonight. God, I hate lying to my parents. I hear voices downstairs, my mother’s distinctively soft and welcoming speech and two others that are familiar but I can’t place them. Then there’s footfall on the stairs and I try to pull myself up into a sitting position, stopping when my head starts to spin. There’s a light knock then Mom cracks the door open and pokes her head in. “Clark? You up for some company?” “Yeah, okay.” I sounded louder in my head, but my voice comes out faint and rough like I imagine it would sound if I’d been screaming all night. Though, really, it’s entirely possible that I was. The door swings all the way open and the first person I see is Lex, and I immediately feel better. He’s all smiles and his face is a little red from windburn, though I can’t imagine why, and even though his eyes look a little sad at seeing me looking like what I know must be total hell, there isn’t any real pity, and I appreciate that. “Hey, Clark.” “Lex. How did you know…” Then I see Lana peek out from behind him, face full of pity and guilt and everything I can’t handle right now. At least she’s trying to smile. “Hi, Clark, it’s good to see you awake.” I immediately mentally rewind to yesterday and wonder just what she told Lex about my sudden ‘illness’. It’s embarrassing to just…pass out like that. I want so badly for him to see me as this strong, capable person because, in the end, he’s the only one left that seems to still think so. Mom closes the door, leaving the three of us alone, and Lex takes the chair stationed next to my bed while Lana just sits at the foot of the mattress. Lex is fidgeting like he wants to touch me but he’s a little afraid. Lana pats my foot and says, “Your Mom said you had a kind of rough night. I hope you’re doing better now.” “Yeah, just a little queasy.” Lana smiles and I can see she’s relieved, and the guilt is mostly gone from her face, and I hate that that makes me almost want to take it back. Lex, however, just gives me an obvious once over and quirks an eyebrow. Lex always knows when I’m lying. “Look, Clark, the reason I came by was I wanted to talk about yesterday afternoon.” I feel a little weird talking about it with Lex here, so I just keep it to, “Yeah, I know, and I’m sorry.” She smiles brightly and pats my foot again. “Thanks, Clark, I really appreciate that.” “Lana, do you think I could speak to Clark alone for a minute?” She looks confused, but willing, like she’s gotten what she really came for. “Sure, Lex. Mrs. Kent was making some tea – I’ll go give her a hand.” “Thank you.” He’s silent until the door is closed and her footsteps have faded from the steps, and then, “You’re just going to let her get away with that, aren’t you?” “What?” “She told me about the fight you have, and even from her version I could tell it was she who should be apologizing, and I’m sure she was underplaying her part in the whole thing.” “No, Lex, I really did say some pretty awful things to her-“ “Did you insult her?” I pause a moment at the non-equator. “Uh, well, I did say fuck you and get out.” He smirks, but I can tell he’s suppressing laughter. “And I’m sure she deserved it. What I mean, Clark, was that did you in anyway call her, say, a bitch? Say she was self-centered, or stupid, or something along those lines?” “No, of course not.” “Too bad, because you should have.” “Lex, come on-“ “Clark, I have stood by over the last two-something years while she’s put you down in every which way, has ignored your feelings for her own, has accused you of all these wrongs, gets mad when you leave her to go save someone’s LIFE, and you just take it and take it until even someone as perfectly sweet and forgiving as you couldn’t stand it any longer, and she has the balls to expect YOU to apologize to HER?” “Lex, she’s had such a tough life-“ “Like she’s the only one? Yes, she lost her parents, it was very tragic, but we’ve all gone through our own horrors. I lost my mother, have had my ass kicked by every goddamn mutant in this town, “ and he smiles a little when he says that, “ spent three months on a desert island and had two wives try and kill me. You, you run around saving everyone’s ass ten times over without hardly any thanks for it, almost lost your parents a dozen times, and I don’t know much about your past, but you are an orphan as well, are you not?” Well, now I know I am. “Yes.” “And now you’re seriously ill for, what, the third time this year? Lana needs to stop pitying herself and believe me, you had every right to be as mad as you got, plus some.” It’s not until he sits back that I realize how close he had gotten, and I feel the absence like he’s left a vacuum in the space he once existed. The sudden onslaught followed by the sudden quiet is a little overwhelming, and I reach under the bed for the trashcan I know is there before I start dry heaving over it. I feel him shift to sit next to me on the bed and he rubs my back, whispering, “Ah, shit, Clark, I’m sorry, you didn’t need that, did you.” The circles he’s painting across my shirt sooth me for the simple touch, and after a moment I calm down enough to put the can down and let myself fall back against the pillows. “No, Lex, it’s fine, I appreciate the…I don’t know, support, I guess.” His smile is uncharacteristically soft. “Hey, you know the cliché about what friends are for and all that. And you know I love a good cliché. “ When I smile he takes it as his cue to move back to the chair, and I can’t help but reach out and grasp his arm. “No, wait, just…just don’t.” He turns to look at me, a question in the dip of his brow. “Don’t what?” “Don’t – don’t leave me.” He covers my hand with his and sighs, “Oh, Clark,” and he’s shifting again like he wants to hug me or something but isn’t sure if it’s okay, so I make the decision for him and sit up and into his embrace. My head spins at the movement, but the second his arms tighten around me like he’s finally giving in to what he wants, the spinning stops and I feel warm again. Minutes have passed while we just hold each other and it should be strange and awkward and starting to end with us pulling back and punching shoulders to reaffirm our manliness, but for some reason, it just…isn’t. Instead, I feel his arms tighten around me, the heat of his fever soaking through my skin, and I can tell he wants this, NEEDS this, just as badly as I do, because I don’t want him to leave, either. When I first came in I had to take a moment to stabilize myself. It took only a split-second, but I needed to do it, because looking at this strong person so fragile and pale beneath the covers just flooded me with an uncomfortable sense of déjà vu. Maybe if he was only sick this one time, not having this illness that seems to have crept up on him over the last few months until he’s out of bed only days at a time. When mom did it she called it ‘bed hopping’ like it was a game, but it was never funny. And in the end, she did leave. I don’t think I can stand to be left behind again. Between thinking about Mom, the warm man in my arms, the hair brushing my temple that is as soft as hers ever was, I let my guard down, act on impulse, and turn my head to press a kiss to that silky hair. Oh, shit. That was so not a heterosexual move. I’m tense, every piece of every passing second like another turn of the key, winding me up tighter and tighter, waiting for the rebuff, the rejection- And he sighs and presses in closer while noticeably relaxing in my arms. So, so carefully, and slowly, I reach up and stroke a bit at the nape of his neck, his bare skin an incredible heat beneath the pads of my fingers, and he hums a bit deep in his chest. It’s not until Lana knocks on the door and he doesn’t stir that I realize the slack in his hold and the pull of his body on my arms, and know he’s asleep. I lay him back and pull the blankets up over his shoulders before Lana and I make our way back downstairs. We meet Martha in the kitchen, where she’s sipping tea and looking nervous. The sound of Lana’s thick heels thumping on the wood floor brings her out of her thoughts and she puts a smile on her face for us. “Thank you both for coming by: I’m sure Clark appreciates your visit.” “I wouldn’t know – before Lana could even get back he’d already fallen asleep.” The smile on her face turns a bit more genuine, and I see a glimmer of relief spark behind her expression. “Oh, good, maybe he’ll finally get some uninterrupted sleep.” “Do you think he might be having a relapse? He didn’t go into the hospital then – maybe he never really recovered the right way, or something?” Relapse? “Relapse? I wasn’t aware Clark had been sick before, especially enough for hospitalization?” Martha looks at me with an expression of wariness then tells me, “When I fell ill last year, Clark seemed to have picked up the same thing. But, before we could get him into a hospital, he got well.” “I had no idea. I’m glad he’s all right. Still, maybe he should see a doctor if that is the case.” Lana turns to me. “Oh, he did see a doctor.” Probably some small town old man who hardly practiced and therefore had the time to make a house call. “Who?” Lana doesn’t answer, just gets this look on her face that spells ‘oops’, and Martha is bearing that same expression again, and I get it. “Ah, my ex-wife I presume.” “Yes.” “Sorry, Lex, I forgot, I didn’t mean to –“ “Please, Lana, it’s alright. Unfortunate circumstances don’t change past facts. Don’t worry. I just can’t believe Helen would have seen him and not have brought him in.” “Well, like I said, he recovered, and he didn’t want to worry Jonathan anymore than he was already. Still, his symptoms are different and he’s not nearly as bad off as he was then, so I’m sure bed rest and soup will be enough this time.” The look on her face plainly begged for a change of subject. “Good, I hope he’ll be feeling better. Maybe if he’s up to it tomorrow I’ll bring some movies by again.” Martha’s smile is grateful. “That would be wonderful, Lex. You really cheered him up last time.” I duck my head and try to hide the smile that I know shows just how much that means to me, but when I look up and see the happy glimmer in Martha’s eyes, I know she’s seen it anyway. The three of us make small talk for a while, Lana promises to make sure Clark gets his homework, and then we leave. I drop Lana back at the Talon, and she looks so happy to have her clean and perfect world restored around her I have to make a concerted effort not to say some thinly veiled insult to tear it down again. I envy Clark for having had the chance to tell her off. I head back to the castle. I need a drink, and I’ve been saving some very good, very old scotch that will fit the bill. I can’t believe I let myself fall asleep in Lex’s arms. God, how embarrassing. Embarrassing for us both. But especially for me. Still, it felt so, God, so good. With Lex there’s no guilt trips, no resentment, no issues big enough to make him turn away and throw up his hands. Even after this summer, when I ditched my best man duties, he wasn’t mad. When I didn’t save him from a long hot summer on that island, he didn’t resent me for it like Lana might with the same irrational thinking that lets me blame myself for it. No – after a visit to confront his father, then Helen, the first person he comes to see is me, and we have one of those satisfying hugs I’ve only ever gotten from him. When I tighten my arms around him I don’t feel like he’s going to break, like I’ll unintentionally hurt him, and he just reacts by gripping me harder in return. After my father’s heroics this summer I’m almost scared to touch him, I’m so afraid of the hurts I’ve inflicted on him, as indirect as they may be. When I woke up I was able to go outside to catch the last afternoon sun, then ate an entire sandwich, which delighted my mother. I considered going back to school that Monday, but she told me that I needed to be at 100% first, and I had taken so few sick days over the years that I was due a break. I think she wants to hang on to what may be some of her last chances to really mother me before graduation and I return to Metropolis. Of course, being home and in bed means I have nothing to do but think and fidget. Lex comes by the next day with a movie we don’t watch. We just talk and laugh and I forget for a few hours, but then he has to go fight with his father and I’m alone again, too tired to go lose myself in farm chores but too well to do the same in fevered dreams. So I lie there, trying to sleep and escape, but there’s this frustrated energy thrumming under my skin and it’s driving me insane, making me sick to my stomach. I feel like my life is so out of control, shifted at the will of every force in the universe but my own, and I can’t seem to get to grips with anything anymore. It’s like I’m losing my hold on my life, and if I let go I’ll fly up from the earth and never come back. But some days there’s a part of me that would like for that to happen. I want to lash out against the world and scream unfairness, but that’s childish and impractical and I tried that once, this summer. I know what happens when I let my anger and frustration out. But, God, something has to give and I think maybe, maybe I can just turn it back onto me. When Morgan Edge had my parents held hostage in the barn, demanding something I no longer had, and I drew my own blood and handed it to him, it was frightening and painful and terrible. And so, so good. With new powers always popping up and my limits stretching more and more, it’s like I not only have no control over my life, but not even over my own body. But when I felt my skin give and split under the sharp edge of that rock, it was like finally, some kind of hurt, something real and human that I can control. Something to remind me that no matter what Jor-El and my own body chemistry says, I am not a God, I am not untouchable, I am not above the pain and raw emotion. I can block out all the bad, make myself numb, but find a way to still feel. So on Monday while Mom and Dad went out into the fields and everyone else was in school or at work, I snuck out to the barn and found the rock I made Dad keep incase I ever thought to run again. This one, however, was rougher than the last one that Edge used to get me in that truck, so I dug up an unused box cutter blade. Back in the house I grabbed an old towel and went up to my room. The sound of fine crystal shattering against stone is satisfying, but watching the tainted fluid bleed down the side of the fireplace, my rage rebuilds and I’m tempted to tear through the rest of the room. However, I’ve done that before, when Dad bugged the office, and I’m in no mood to deal with a mess like that again. Darius is probably on the bus to Metropolis as we speak, his immediate resignation in exchange for my not calling the police. In truth, I don’t want police involved, and while I could make all kinds of problems for him, it’s not him I’m really angry at, and at that point I only wanted him gone. I really want a drink, but I’m wary to try anything else on the bar despite Darius’s assurances, so I just sit on the couch and rub my tightly shut eyes. If I hadn’t caught him… I shudder to think what a hell my life might have become. As it is I’ll be firing the psychiatrist, hiring new staff… a confrontation with my father will have to wait. I’m certain he’s behind this, but for now I’ll play it as if I suspect outside treachery and bide my time. It’s better if I do my own investigation, get all the facts, and cover all bases. The tape of Edge is gone, but I don’t think Darius took it, and as far as I know only Edge and I know about that tape. Possibly he went to my father, tried to cut some kind of deal. I’d love to just storm his place, demand answers, but you don’t just run into a mob boss’s private home, guns a-blazing. Maybe a well-timed visit to “discuss our plan of action” against my father would be well advised. It might garner no new information, but if he is talking to Lionel, then he’ll most likely report back to him that I either don’t know the tape is missing, or don’t know that the two of them are working together. Right now, however, I’m too angry to think well on my feet. I’ll take a few days to cool off, make the arrangements for new staff, and spend some time with a friend. They’re gone. I’d had five, perfectly even cuts across my shoulder, the sting mingling with the effects of the rock placed across the room, and when I’d squeeze at the flesh around them they’d bleed a little more so I could feel the warm fluid spilling down my arm before soaking into the towel at my elbow. I’ll have to destroy the washcloth to get rid of the alien blood, but for a few minutes I could look at it and see my pain and frustration making a stain outside myself. I’d finger and press the cuts, making them ache and burn, and I felt branded in and out, felt a catharsis so strong I could finally let go and cry, really cry, for the first time since Dad told me the awful truth. Except after a while the sobs got so strong and so harsh I vomited from the force of the emotions spilling out, and I knew that now that I’ve started I wont be able to hold it in anymore. But the pain, the burn, the sting… these are ways to cry my heart out without it showing to those around me, a way to rein in my emotions in a precise, controlled way, like everything else in my life had to be controlled. It fit. Then I got up and closed the lead box, and almost immediately the hurt was gone, the wounds healed, these freeing things, just…taken away. Taken away by my own alien biology that causes me so much pain in the first place. Lana’s necklace had incapacitated me, probably would have killed me, eventually. To do my chores even at a normal pace, to go to school and the Talon and play at pretend happiness for my friends and parents, it would have to be the smallest shard. Thinking of the necklace gives me an idea. Last year after Mom found out she was pregnant she had been so worried I’d feel displaced, not knowing how excited I actually was for a sibling, she had given me an old silver locket she had gotten from her mother. She’d laughed at the face I’d made and told me she didn’t expect me to wear it, and it was probably something to give to a daughter, but it was an item meant to go from parent to child in love, and she wanted to keep the tradition of that love going with me. I’d taken it, kissed her and told her I’d always keep it, then put it in a box at the bottom of my sock drawer for “safe keeping.” The chain is short, but I can get the pendant off, and I put it onto a long string that I tie around my neck so the small oval capsule lays on my chest, hidden under my shirt. I pick up the lead box and shake it, hard, so I know small pieces would dislodge from the rock, and quickly open it, pull out a piece, shut the box and drop the shard onto the dresser feeling as though I’d been burned. Using tweezers I drop the piece into the open locket, then shut it and let it drop to my chest. I feel a little…off, like I’m still just a little bit sick, and that’s when I realize that I’m not actually sick anymore. I curl my fingers and press my thumbnail into my palm, and watch a little red depression form. Perfect. “Are you sure you’re okay?” “Lex! I’m fine. Really.” “You look a little wan. Do you want to lie down?” “Lex…” his tone is warning, so I step back and raise my hands in apology. “Okay, okay. I’ll back off.” “Thanks.” We sit down on the facing couches in front of the fire and I start setting out pieces. Clark isn’t a huge chess fan, but showed me backgammon as a compromise, and as it turns out I like the game quite a bit. It’s sort of become our new “thing.” Neither one of us wants to go to the Talon, Clark has picked up the habit of being a ridiculously thorough student and finishing homework way in advance, and after discovering my father’s betrayal I have no taste for working as his corporate lackey, so we spend our time watching movies or playing pool and backgammon. “So I haven’t seen you around town lately. Lana asked about you.” “Oh?” “She told me you’ve been skipping lunch, and seem to be almost avoiding the Torch.” He bites his lip a minute, then sort of hugs himself and rubs his arms and relaxes back into the seat. “My appetite isn’t really back yet, and Chloe’s been acting weird.” “How so?” “Sometimes we’ll just be talking or laughing at something and she’ll just look at me with this strange expression like she’s going to cry, then makes up some excuse and leaves.” “Maybe she still has feelings for you. I imagine you’d be tough to get over.” He blushes a little at that, and I try not to smile. “I doubt it… she seemed pretty adamant this summer about how ‘over’ me she is. Besides, she’s the one who said she only wanted to be friends.” “Maybe she’s regretting her decision.” He looks unconvinced, but just holds himself tighter and says, “Maybe.” “Are you cold, Clark?” He jerks a little and drops his hands like he hadn’t realized what he was doing. “Um… yeah, kind of. I think the temperature is dropping again.” “I don’t think so. You’ve been dropping weight pretty steadily this year, you most likely are feeling it.” “I’m fine, really, just… tired maybe.” I have an impulse to tut and suggest he eat something, but then I remember I’m not his mother. “Hold on, Ill get you a sweater. That jacket’s too thin.” He just sort of nods and wraps his arms around himself again, eyes unfocused and distant like they always were, and as I go get him the sweater I’m hit with this sense of loss, and wonder if I’m loosing him. I find an old college sweatshirt that’s probably warmer than any of the fine knit things I own, and bring that back. When I return he’s just as I found him, gaze going off somewhere unknown, and his brow and jaw are tight in a way that, if I didn’t know him better, I’d say look like he’s fighting off tears. “Here, this should help.” He smiles weakly and takes the pullover, then leans forward to peel off his jacket, and I see a little something on his sleeve. When I lean forward to compulsively brush it away, the cotton is wet and he flinches away. “Clark, are you bleeding?” He jerks the jacket back up, and looks totally startled and a little scared. “I had a little machinery mishap on the farm. It’s nothing.” “Here, let me take you upstairs, we’ll put a bandage on it.” “No!” He shoots up from his seat and looks ready to bolt. “I mean, I’m fine, really, I just…I should get home and put this shirt in the wash before it stains. Mom will kill me if I ruin it.” “You can do that here-“ “No, no, it’s okay, I really need to go anyway, I’ve got this paper I ought to get started on, so I’m just going to…go.” He looks frightened and nervous and when I look more closely at his face I can see the sheen of his eyes and know he really is trying not to cry. “Clark. You look like hell, and you’re upset, and you really shouldn’t be driving. So why don’t you sit down, I’ll find you a blanket, you can eat something and we’ll take care of your arm.” “Thanks but I-“ his voice breaks a little, and he half whispers, “I’ve got to go.” Then he leaves. I’m left worried and confused, wondering what just happened and wishing not for the first time that I could see what was going on behind those beautiful troubled eyes of his. I could press, but that usually gets his ire up, so for the time being I can only put away the game and relax because sometimes, you just have to bow to the absurd. <<