I started this story two years ago, and it sat, unfinished, until about two weeks ago. It's an alternative universe fic, based on a question that popped up into my head after watching a repeat of the pilot: What if Clark HADN'T been invulnerable when Lex hit him?
A first draft began with Lex's POV, as he woke up in the hospital and told him Clark had been killed. Yet he recalled a different scenario. For various reasons that beginning did not work out, so I changed the POV. Clark's viewpoint seemed to be much more logical, and indeed, worked out much better.
Nobody has actually switched roles here. If you recognize one character in another, it's merely coincidence. These are different characters, altered by subtle differences in their world as opposed to "ours." Clark is the exception - and you will see why.
I think I've made it clear when these events take place, but for the sake of clarity I'll mention it here. In "our" universe the time is set during events that take place in Season 2's episode Rosetta. In "their" universe we meet our characters a short time after the Pilot takes place, and if a certain character knows more than you think he should, keep in mind the age difference.
This will be posted in chapters, of which there should be 10 or so.
Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoy. Comments are always welcome.
-T
At first there was only a weird buzzing noise in his head, like voices coming at him from under water, and a great deal of pain. This alternated with periods of darkness, and even more pain that drove into his head like a jack-hammer with every beat of his heart. When he finally managed to open his eyes, it took a while to focus properly. The light burned.
A hand entered his line of vision. Fingers caressed his forehead, soothing his brow as if he were a child. The soft hand was cool upon his burning skin. He knew who it had to be because no one else had ever touched him that way.
"Mom?"
It came out a breathy moan. There was something down his throat preventing him from speaking. He couldn't move either. His legs were weighted down with something heavy and unwielding, his neck was wrapped in some sort of collar. Confusion and fear set in, along with a feeling of panic as he began struggling against his bonds. Martha Kent shushed him, wrapped her hand around his and gave it a squeeze.
"Shh, shh. Honey, it's okay. It's okay. You were in an accident." She rose to stand over him and he could see her face. Her presence was a comfort, but not her words. "You're in the hospital, but you're going to be okay."
Clark looked at her. There were tears in her eyes.
And needles in his arm.
He was completely baffled by it.
They told him nothing, kept him sedated because he kept insisting on trying to move around. This was despite the annoying ache in his legs and the pain that radiated through his back and shoulders every time he attempted to move his head. It took him a while for his mind to clear enough for him to understand he was injured.
He was still as confused as hell, and the pain wasn't helping. In his world there was no such thing as pain, nor pain-killers that knocked him on his butt and left him sleeping for hours. He'd slept enough. He wanted to get up and get answers. When his head cleared even more he realized he wasn't going anywhere with two broken legs, a cracked skull and a sprained back. He was in casts from his feet to the tops of his thighs and wearing a metal and plastic brace from his ribs to his chin. Thus contained, Clark had nothing to do but sleep.
He got depressed. They gave him more medicine in the form of anti-depressants and let him have visitors. The latter suited Clark just fine because thus far all he'd seen were his parents, and they weren't talking. They made soothing noises, and wouldn't answer his questions. Rest, they said, rest, and we can talk later.
It was Pete who came first. Clark woke from a nap to the sound of his voice and was overjoyed to see him sitting beside the bed. Groping for the controls that raised and lowered the top of the bed, he raised himself up so he could see, and frowned at the expression on Pete's face. He looked to be on the verge of tears.
"What?" Clark demanded. "What is it?"
"Nothing, it's just...they told us not to get our hopes up. You'd hit your head pretty hard. Mom told me she heard you weren't expected to wake up."
"You should know better. Of course I'd wake up. I'm not even supposed to be here! I don't understand what's going on, and Mom and Dad won't tell me anything."
Pete leaned back in his chair. He was wearing, Clark noted, a letter jacket. It wasn't just a school jacket, but a letter jacket like the jocks wore, with his name sewed in over the pocket and a great big "S" on the breast. A gold pin denoted what sport he played.
When did Pete letter? He's the worst player on the football team. They never letter freshmen unless they're really good.
"You don't remember the accident?"
Clark automatically tried to shake his head, winced when he couldn't. "No. I..." he flushed guiltily. "I went to the caves, Pete. I had the key from the ship with me and I put it in the indentation in the wall. It opened up and this bright light hit me. The next thing I know I'm here."
There was a moment of hesitation before Pete laughed, shaking his head. "Clark, man, I know you're recovering from having your brains shaken not stirred but what the hell are you talking about?"
"The caves! I was in the caves. Whatever hit me must have been from outside the Earth, nothing else could have done this to me and..."
"What hit you was from Detroit, not another planet." Pete interrupted gently. "You got hit by a car, punched through a guard-rail and hurled into the river off of the Loeb bridge. I don't know what caves you're talking about unless it's something you dreamed up while you were out."
"Out?" Clark frowned. "What do you mean, out? How long have I been here?"
"Two months. You've been in a coma for two months, buddy. They told us you probably wouldn't wake up because of your head kissing windshield.
Suddenly frightened, Clark stared at Pete in utter confusion. The answers he thought he'd gain from having visitors were not forthcoming. What Pete was telling him only created more questions.
"That's not possible," he whispered. "I shouldn't have gotten hurt, I can't be hurt. I'm invulnerable."
"No, you're not, or else you wouldn't be talkin' out of your head." Pete said with a snort. "You got hit by a freakin' car, Clark, and you're lucky to be alive. The truck driver that pulled you out of the river said he'd never see anything like it. It nearly broke you in half when you went through that railing and into the water. You shattered the windshield with your head."
"Bridge, I went off the bridge?" Clark whispered. Comprehension dawned as if he'd been again struck by a car. "Lex! Lex hit me."
"Yeah, Lex Luthor. Lionel Luthor's kid. He was heading down Route 4 going like a bat outta hell, lost control of the car and that was that."
"But that...is he okay?"
"Okay? Are you kidding? No. After the truck driver got you out he went back to check on Lex but couldn't get him out." Pete shook his head. "By the time the squad got there it was too late."
Clark stared at him. "You're lying."
"Why would I lie about that? Clark, I'm serious. Lex Luthor drowned. He's dead and buried. Hasn't anyone told you any of this?"
"No," Clark murmured. "I've asked what happened, but they just put me off, didn't want to talk about it."
"They probably didn't want you to get upset. You look upset now. Man, your Mom is gonna scalp me."
"No she won't. Somebody had to tell me eventually."
Clark's confusion now was tenfold. By his memory Lex had hit him, had gone into the water, but due to Clark's intervention he had not drowned. Clark rescued Lex from the wreck and they were both fine. They'd become friends. Lex still hinted around that he didn't believe he hadn't been killed, suspecting Clark of lying. Clark should have been killed, or at least badly injured, but he wasn't because he wasn't human. He was strong, he was fast, he could see through things...
He raised a hand so he could look at it. There was an i.v. taped down to the back of it. He made a fist. The needle pulled. It hurt.
Not human? Or was his head injury playing games with his mind? What if everything that happened after the accident - never really happened at all?
But that didn't make sense, because he'd always been "different," even before the accident.
"Clark?"
He started, dropping his hand to his lap. "What?"
Pete's expression was one of concern. "Are you going to be okay?"
"Yeah." Clark said. "Yeah, I'll be okay."
Chuckling a little, Pete shook his head. "I was worried for a minute there, buddy. Space aliens and superpowers? What drugs they have you on, anyway?"
"Yeah," Clark bit his lip.
What is going on?
The back brace came off a few days after Pete's visit, replaced by miles of ace bandaging wrapped around his chest and shoulders. Clark was sent home with a wheelchair to get around with, but he wanted crutches. His request was denied. He wasn't permitted to have crutches because of the strain they would put on his back. After practicing pushing his wheelchair around himself he had to agree. His back ached. Getting around with crutches would have been murder.
At home navigation was difficult. His father built him a ramp so he could get off the porch and into the barnyard if he wanted. Inside they brought his bed down from upstairs and set up a makeshift bedroom in Martha's sewing room, which was little more than a little addition in the back Grampa Hiram had added just before he died. It wasn't insulated. The fall nights were cold, and so was Clark, as he lay shivering beneath his blankets, unable to curl into a ball for more warmth. He always seemed to be cold.
Cold, when he shouldn't have been cold. He was impervious to cold. He was unable to feel pain.
Wrong.
He was frustrated, confused and had a nearly constant headache despite the pain pills the hospital prescribed him. Even propped up and immobilized his legs ached from his calves to his thighs. Beneath the casts his skin itched and burned. He had to ask for help to take a leak, and when he'd finally gotten a look at himself he was appalled. He didn't even look the same.
Some of the scars were new, like the one that ran like an underline beneath his right eye. The one that marred a lip, and one just under his chin were old, as were the ugly gashes across his ribs on the right side. The accident had broken his nose - a second time apparently.There was an ugly bump on the bridge from more than one break in the past.
That was the most frightening thing to him. Maybe he was just suffering from some sort of delusion as a result of the accident, but when he looked in the mirror and didn't recognize himself, it sent a chill through him. Something was wrong, very wrong, and Clark failed to be able to understand the where, what and how of it.
His mother had worried about his "memory loss" when he asked her about the older scars.
"You don't remember?"
"Huh-uh."
"Honey, they're from when you were only three." She'd smiled slightly. "You were always sneaking away from me. I'd turned my back for a minute and you'd slipped through the fence and into the pen with our old bull. Remember?"
"Oh, right."
In truth Clark did remember that incident. Only when the bull charged him, he'd simply moved out of its way to fast for it too follow. When it got lucky and hooked him once, it simply threw him over the fence, where he landed in the dirt frightened but unscathed. Apparently not in this universe. In this universe old Spike had hooked him good and tossed him around a little, breaking his nose and several ribs in the process.
He rubbed his hand over his hair. It was growing out, but still terribly short from where they'd shaved it all off in the hospital. He'd had a shunt, Martha said, to help relieve the swelling inside his skull. If all he came away with from such a horrible head injury were a few mixed up memories, his parents were content with that. Clark wasn't so easily appeased.
Clark did believe he'd somehow gotten mixed up in another world, because he knew what he knew, and this wasn't it. Nobody was going to convince him otherwise, but who was going to believe him if he told them? If he told his parents they'd send him back to the hospital, or to a shrink.
"Yes, my son suffered massive head trauma and now thinks he's an alien."
There wasn't a spaceship in the storm cellar, Clark was sure of it, even if he couldn't get down there to look for himself.
And Lex was dead.
He'd gotten on-line and looked up everything about the accident he could find. There wasn't much, only an obituary and a small article in the paper. That in itself Clark found strange. He also found it depressing. For all that this Lex may not have been his Lex, he still felt the loss.
If Clark had been himself Lex wouldn't be dead. Clark would have ripped open the car and gotten him free before he drowned. The question was, why wasn't Clark - Clark?
He desperately needed to talk to someone who wouldn't think he was a kook. Pete had been very little help the few times Clark spoke with him, always having to rush off to football practice or spend time with his girlfriend. He was, Clark found out, second string quarterback, the only freshman ever to hold such a position. Pete wasn't Pete either. It was becoming clear they had not been as close in this world as in his own.
Sighing, Clark painstakingly rolled himself over to the screen door. Getting out the door was tough because he couldn't reach it. His knees didn't bend and his legs were propped up on long supports that stuck out in front of him. If he leaned too far forward he was in danger of tipping the whole damn wheelchair over. Clark utilized a broom to shove the door open wide enough so that he could wedge himself through. It was clumsy, noisy, frustrating, and left Clark red faced and irritated by the time he got outside. His back ached from his efforts.
This was not normal. Or rather, it was normal, just not for him.
"Yeah, and who was it who always complained about not being normal?" he grumbled, tossing the broom onto the porch swing. "Well now you got it buddy."
It was a beautiful Autumn day, not too hot and not too cool. He could smell leaves burning in the distance. The sun was high in a cloudless blue sky. Next week he was supposed to go back to school, something which he was dreading. What else would he find different? How could he be expected to adapt to this place when his memories were of something else, not to mention a body not his own? This wasn't his body. It resembled him, people recognized him as Clark Kent, but this body was human, with a human fragility he found unpleasant in the extreme.
Clark thunked his knuckles against the cast on his right leg. He stared at the signatures. Only one person had angled their autograph so that when he looked at it he didn't have to read it upside down. She'd made her "o" into a flower, and colored it pink and yellow with highlighters.
Some things hadn't changed. When Chloe had come to visit him in the hospital she was virtually the same as he remembered. She was still the editor of The Torch, and still completely obsessed with making reporting her career. The only thing different about her that Clark could see was that she was a little more conservative with her dress, and her hair was different. It was long, and pulled back in a ponytail. She seemed more - girly. Other than that, she was the same old Chloe.
Chloe.
He sat up a little straighter.
"Chloe!"
If there was a mystery to be solved, she would be the one to solve it.