Whoopsijackie
By Cascade firechild@post.com
Rated G
Pairings: J/M
Disclaimers: I don't own the Kents, the Animaniacs, or Andrew. Or the DoH.
Or Jackie. I do own the plot idea. Oh, and I own Cluck-El and Moo-El.
Spoilers: Metamorphosis
Warnings: This little bit of nonsense happened while I was writing Pulses;
I know that Clark's room probably isn't right above the living room, but
for this story it worked. And before you get your tights in a knot, I am
both blonde and a writer. This story is a gift for a dear friend, who also
happens to be a blonde writer.
Jonathan Kent's eyes flew open and he found that he was already sitting bolt upright. His heart pounded as he recalled the loud crashing sound and quaking that had awakened him from a rather pleasant dream in which he was being interviewed about his responsibility for the successful careers of Cluck-El and Moo-El. He was just getting to the part where he was deciding on the size of diamond to buy for Martha with his new riches, when a bone- jarring crash shook the farmhouse like a toothpick bridge. Martha, incredibly, was still sound asleep, sawing a log that would probably register on the Decibel chart. Jonathan shook his head, smiling to himself- -he'd loved her for two decades, loved nearly everything about her, but finding out that she snored was the best wedding gift anyone could have given him--her snore was just too adorable for words. So he let her sleep as he grabbed his shotgun and the cordless phone and headed out to see what had killed his dream.
He surveyed the upstairs hallway as he headed toward his son's room, wondering if the teenager had sleepwalked through a piece of furniture. Jonathan winced at the thought, unsure which would be harder--repairing the chest of drawers, or trying to get Clark to let Jonathan check him for splinters. Hey, even with a superkid, he never knew.
He noticed that the door was partially open, and he slowly pushed it back, gearing up to ask Clark what in this galaxy was going on in his room, but he stopped short; there was no use asking the question, as Clark wasn't in the room.
Neither, incidentally, was his bed.
There was, however, a rather impressive hole in the floor. Jonathan tamped down the temptation to go look over the edge; there was way too much dust in the air around the hole, and if he sneezed he might lose his balance and fall through.
With a sigh, Jon turned and left the room, taking the stairs in threes, and turned to face the living room just in time to see that Clark was, indeed, still in bed--the bed just happened to now be in front of the fireplace, right where the coffee table used to be. The boy was awake, his eyes wide, his chest heaving.
"Clark, what happened? If you wanted to move downstairs, you should have asked."
Clark looked up at his father with red-rimmed eyes. "Dad! I can explain!" His hands nervously picked at the edge of his red blanket, while one of his knees tented the middle of the black crow applique that Jonathan had always privately thought looked slightly psychotic.
Jonathan knew he should be patient with his son, but it was late and he was tired and wishing he hadn't had that third burrito at dinner. "Son, I'm tired, so let's just make this short and sweet. Tell me if you're okay, and then tell me how you and your bed ended up down here. And if your explanation isn't good, you'll be paying for the repairs with your allowance."
"Dad, I'm sorry, really! I didn't mean to do it! I--I woke up here! I was asleep, dreaming about algebra, but then I started having an even worse nightmare. This--this blonde girl flew in, all by herself, through the window of the classroom and grabbed me. She was as strong as me, and she was really pretty, and she was wearing this cute little red, yellow, and blue thing with a skirt and gloves. She was cute, but somehow I couldn't, you know, like her that way. I dunno why. Anyway, she carried me out of the school building--I was thinking you were gonna kill me for skipping-- and she took me real high up, over the town and over our house and over the west pasture, where you were sitting with a bunch of cameras and lights and stuff. I was real freaked out and I told her to put me down, and she just laughed and told me to loosen up and enjoy it because I would spend the rest of my life flying all over the world, serving people. I told her I'd rather be a trucker, and she laughed again and said that the sky was my destiny, whether I liked it or not. And then."
He trailed off, his voice dropping to a shaky whisper. "And then she took me higher, above the clouds, right over our house, and. and she dropped me. Just let go, like I was a science experiment. I fell and fell and then I finally figured out how to stop myself, how to change direction--but before I could do anything, I went through the roof." He stared at his blanket as he whispered guiltily, "That's when I woke up down here. I'm sorry, Dad--I think I broke the bed again." He seemed to have something else to say, something that obviously weighed on him, some deep-seated fear that he needed to address. He finally looked up at his father, lip trembling, eyes filling with tears, voice young and unsteady.
"Daddy, please tell me I don't really have to become a flight attendant! I hate heights, the uniforms are stupid, and I can't stand the smell of peanuts!"
The farmer was at a loss; Clark hadn't called him Daddy since the last time his mother had tried to force him to eat turnip greens. Jon didn't quite know what to do as he stifled a yawn. Part of him wanted to go back to Martha and her snoring, while the rest of him was torn between duct-taping his son to his bed and fixing him a snack--flying was exhausting business, even in dreams.
The predicament was shortly taken out of his hands, though; Jonathan's eyes widened and he dropped the phone and raised his shotgun as a strange but beautiful young blonde woman in purple flannel pajamas and shiny red boots suddenly lunged out of a picture on the wall, hugged Clark, and then turned to shake her finger at Jonathan. She didn't open her mouth, but he heard her telepathically tell him off for seeing that his child was crying and not automatically hugging him. She mentally screamed at him that he was a good father but that he needed to learn to validate his son's feelings and express his own with a more open attitude; after all, it wasn't as if he was one of those ne'er-do-wells who rode around in a fast car whooping and making wolf whistles at women. Jonathan, growing more terrified and annoyed by the second, hit his irritation limit and raised the gun, but before he could squeeze the trigger, the young woman stuck a "bang" flag in each barrel and scampered back through the picture frame.
"Clark, are you alright?" Jonathan ran to kneel by his son.
"Dad, what was that? I think we were just attacked by the spirits of Yakko, Wakko, and Dot! It was kinda.... freaky," he whispered, frightened, as he looked down and picked what smelled like cat hair from the blanket. He glanced back up at his father, mutely asking Jon not to let the crazy lady get him again (although he couldn't deny a certain appreciation for those red boots.) The boy reached out, brow furrowed, and plucked the flags from his father's shotgun, noticing that around each flagstick was wrapped a long, thin sheet of paper; when he unrolled the two sheets and put them end to end, he held a bill for emergency psychoanalysis and intervention services. He snorted weakly but before he could speak, his father took the paper, the flags, and the shotgun and laid them on the floor.
Jonathan brushed the dark hair out of Clark's eyes--Clark's hair, not the cat's--looked his son over for injury, then gathered the whole bundle into his arms and held tight, suddenly certain that they'd just been visited by the Angel of Psychology (a close cousin to the Angel of Death, who seemed to favor very smart-looking cargo pants these days.)
He held Clark for a few minutes before finally pulling away enough to look down at him. "Clark, was. was that girl the one from your dream?"
Clark shook his tousled head. "No; I felt like I should know both of them, like I'd met them somewhere before, but I don't remember either one of them. The one in red was smart-mouthed and a little arrogant, but she could be fun; the one in purple was all smart, like a writer, and squeezy." He held up a six-inch strand of orange hair. "And she likes cats. A lot." He looked up at his father, still trembling and pale. "Dad, don't let them get me, please. I don't want to fly, and I don't want to be a scratching post. And I don't want to have to wear something stupid for the rest of my life or have some girl writing about everything I do. I just wanna be normal!"
Jon debated for a moment, torn between the frightened (if slightly whiny) teenager in his arms and the almost irresistible snoring upstairs. Finally he sighed, resigned. It was his sacred duty to save his son from all evil, including strange blonde women and writers. He let go of Clark and lifted the edge of the covers on the bed. "Move over."
Jonathan Kent's eyes flew open and he found that he was already sitting bolt upright. His heart pounded as he recalled the loud crashing sound and quaking that had awakened him from a rather pleasant dream in which he was being interviewed about his responsibility for the successful careers of Cluck-El and Moo-El. He was just getting to the part where he was deciding on the size of diamond to buy for Martha with his new riches, when a bone- jarring crash shook the farmhouse like a toothpick bridge. Martha, incredibly, was still sound asleep, sawing a log that would probably register on the Decibel chart. Jonathan shook his head, smiling to himself- -he'd loved her for two decades, loved nearly everything about her, but finding out that she snored was the best wedding gift anyone could have given him--her snore was just too adorable for words. So he let her sleep as he grabbed his shotgun and the cordless phone and headed out to see what had killed his dream.
He surveyed the upstairs hallway as he headed toward his son's room, wondering if the teenager had sleepwalked through a piece of furniture. Jonathan winced at the thought, unsure which would be harder--repairing the chest of drawers, or trying to get Clark to let Jonathan check him for splinters. Hey, even with a superkid, he never knew.
He noticed that the door was partially open, and he slowly pushed it back, gearing up to ask Clark what in this galaxy was going on in his room, but he stopped short; there was no use asking the question, as Clark wasn't in the room.
Neither, incidentally, was his bed.
There was, however, a rather impressive hole in the floor. Jonathan tamped down the temptation to go look over the edge; there was way too much dust in the air around the hole, and if he sneezed he might lose his balance and fall through.
With a sigh, Jon turned and left the room, taking the stairs in threes, and turned to face the living room just in time to see that Clark was, indeed, still in bed--the bed just happened to now be in front of the fireplace, right where the coffee table used to be. The boy was awake, his eyes wide, his chest heaving.
"Clark, what happened? If you wanted to move downstairs, you should have asked."
Clark looked up at his father with red-rimmed eyes. "Dad! I can explain!" His hands nervously picked at the edge of his red blanket, while one of his knees tented the middle of the black crow applique that Jonathan had always privately thought looked slightly psychotic.
Jonathan knew he should be patient with his son, but it was late and he was tired and wishing he hadn't had that third burrito at dinner. "Son, I'm tired, so let's just make this short and sweet. Tell me if you're okay, and then tell me how you and your bed ended up down here. And if your explanation isn't good, you'll be paying for the repairs with your allowance."
"Dad, I'm sorry, really! I didn't mean to do it! I--I woke up here! I was asleep, dreaming about algebra, but then I started having an even worse nightmare. This--this blonde girl flew in, all by herself, through the window of the classroom and grabbed me. She was as strong as me, and she was really pretty, and she was wearing this cute little red, yellow, and blue thing with a skirt and gloves. She was cute, but somehow I couldn't, you know, like her that way. I dunno why. Anyway, she carried me out of the school building--I was thinking you were gonna kill me for skipping-- and she took me real high up, over the town and over our house and over the west pasture, where you were sitting with a bunch of cameras and lights and stuff. I was real freaked out and I told her to put me down, and she just laughed and told me to loosen up and enjoy it because I would spend the rest of my life flying all over the world, serving people. I told her I'd rather be a trucker, and she laughed again and said that the sky was my destiny, whether I liked it or not. And then."
He trailed off, his voice dropping to a shaky whisper. "And then she took me higher, above the clouds, right over our house, and. and she dropped me. Just let go, like I was a science experiment. I fell and fell and then I finally figured out how to stop myself, how to change direction--but before I could do anything, I went through the roof." He stared at his blanket as he whispered guiltily, "That's when I woke up down here. I'm sorry, Dad--I think I broke the bed again." He seemed to have something else to say, something that obviously weighed on him, some deep-seated fear that he needed to address. He finally looked up at his father, lip trembling, eyes filling with tears, voice young and unsteady.
"Daddy, please tell me I don't really have to become a flight attendant! I hate heights, the uniforms are stupid, and I can't stand the smell of peanuts!"
The farmer was at a loss; Clark hadn't called him Daddy since the last time his mother had tried to force him to eat turnip greens. Jon didn't quite know what to do as he stifled a yawn. Part of him wanted to go back to Martha and her snoring, while the rest of him was torn between duct-taping his son to his bed and fixing him a snack--flying was exhausting business, even in dreams.
The predicament was shortly taken out of his hands, though; Jonathan's eyes widened and he dropped the phone and raised his shotgun as a strange but beautiful young blonde woman in purple flannel pajamas and shiny red boots suddenly lunged out of a picture on the wall, hugged Clark, and then turned to shake her finger at Jonathan. She didn't open her mouth, but he heard her telepathically tell him off for seeing that his child was crying and not automatically hugging him. She mentally screamed at him that he was a good father but that he needed to learn to validate his son's feelings and express his own with a more open attitude; after all, it wasn't as if he was one of those ne'er-do-wells who rode around in a fast car whooping and making wolf whistles at women. Jonathan, growing more terrified and annoyed by the second, hit his irritation limit and raised the gun, but before he could squeeze the trigger, the young woman stuck a "bang" flag in each barrel and scampered back through the picture frame.
"Clark, are you alright?" Jonathan ran to kneel by his son.
"Dad, what was that? I think we were just attacked by the spirits of Yakko, Wakko, and Dot! It was kinda.... freaky," he whispered, frightened, as he looked down and picked what smelled like cat hair from the blanket. He glanced back up at his father, mutely asking Jon not to let the crazy lady get him again (although he couldn't deny a certain appreciation for those red boots.) The boy reached out, brow furrowed, and plucked the flags from his father's shotgun, noticing that around each flagstick was wrapped a long, thin sheet of paper; when he unrolled the two sheets and put them end to end, he held a bill for emergency psychoanalysis and intervention services. He snorted weakly but before he could speak, his father took the paper, the flags, and the shotgun and laid them on the floor.
Jonathan brushed the dark hair out of Clark's eyes--Clark's hair, not the cat's--looked his son over for injury, then gathered the whole bundle into his arms and held tight, suddenly certain that they'd just been visited by the Angel of Psychology (a close cousin to the Angel of Death, who seemed to favor very smart-looking cargo pants these days.)
He held Clark for a few minutes before finally pulling away enough to look down at him. "Clark, was. was that girl the one from your dream?"
Clark shook his tousled head. "No; I felt like I should know both of them, like I'd met them somewhere before, but I don't remember either one of them. The one in red was smart-mouthed and a little arrogant, but she could be fun; the one in purple was all smart, like a writer, and squeezy." He held up a six-inch strand of orange hair. "And she likes cats. A lot." He looked up at his father, still trembling and pale. "Dad, don't let them get me, please. I don't want to fly, and I don't want to be a scratching post. And I don't want to have to wear something stupid for the rest of my life or have some girl writing about everything I do. I just wanna be normal!"
Jon debated for a moment, torn between the frightened (if slightly whiny) teenager in his arms and the almost irresistible snoring upstairs. Finally he sighed, resigned. It was his sacred duty to save his son from all evil, including strange blonde women and writers. He let go of Clark and lifted the edge of the covers on the bed. "Move over."