To those also reading "Lesser Angels" -- the story is still continuing, as well as this one. I just needed to get this one off my chest. Thanks for all the support! :)

1.

Lionel observed the bottle of brandy waiting for him on his desk carefully, smiling secretively before opening the note that had accompanied it.

Lionel,

Just a little gesture to make up (hopefully) for being such a deadbeat friend lately. Hope to see you at the party fundraiser tomorrow night.

Best,

M.K.

He sighed with satisfaction and re-read the note several times before folding it and slipping it into his shirt pocket. He sat down in his large, leather chair and stared blankly ahead for a few moments, ruminating upon the possibilities of the Senator's impending return to Kansas. It had been nearly six months since he had laid eyes on her, almost a year since he'd had any kind of meanginful conversation with her. He often called her apartment in D.C., though she rarely answered, and sent her the occasional postcard from his travels, just to show that he was thinking about her. She was lax about returning phone calls – Lionel liked to muse that it was because she was so busy rather than entertain any other likely possibility – and her postcards, from summits in England and visits to the Middle East, were often terse and restrained. Fortunately for him, it wasn't difficult to keep tabs on her these days, as she was often featured in the newspaper. He kept CNN playing on the television in a constant loop in his office, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, which he quite frequently did. She was becoming a major player in the party, and Lionel could not have been prouder of her.

That said, he was often discouraged by his political blog searches, as photographs of the Senator from Kansas being escorted about town by members of the party leadership or influential Washington elite often turned up therein. Lionel believed he knew Martha well enough to know that she was not involved in any kind of heavy relationship with any of these men, but the mere thought of her on another man's arm make him cringe with jealousy and, often, concern.

It had been nearly two years since that fateful Thanksgiving, when she had at last acknowledged that there was something between them. At the time, he had never dreamed it would be so long before anything came of the feelings they shared. He decided, eyeing the brandy on his desk, that tomorrow night would be the end-all that determined definitively whether their relationship was moving forward or forever at a standstill.

Clark Kent had gotten so used to seeing his mother's name running across the bottom of CNN newscasts and televised floor votes that he sometimes struggled to see her name as anything besides "U.S. Senator Martha Kent (D-KS)." The "D-KS" followed her name so often that Clark had begun referring to her as "D-KS," rather than "Mom," whenever he saw her or spoke to her on the phone, a new habit Martha was routinely unamused by. Upon retrieving her from the Metropolis Airport, he had been surprised that she had actually responded when he called out "Hey! D-KS!" to capture her attention from across the lobby. She rolled her eyes and sighed, her face breaking into a solid grin by the time she reached his side.

Martha had been reluctant to return to the farm, requesting that Clark take the long way back from Metropolis. As much as she relished in seeing her son, the farm had started to do little more than remind her of Jonathan. The house had felt so empty without him that she had almost been grateful when the opportunity had arised to move to DC and spend the majority of her time there. Every night she spent alone in her bedroom caused her remember just how lonely she was, and just how much she missed him. At her apartment in Washington, she felt like she was living an entirely different life, separate from the life she left behind in Smallville, and therefore spent less time thinking about how deeply she felt Jonathan's presence missing in her life.

The morning after her return, Clark knocked on her bedroom door, then let himself in. He stopped in the doorway, surprised to find her packing a small suitcase.

"What are you doing?"

Martha looked up, startled. "Oh, I have that fundraiser in Topeka tonight. It's never a good idea to make that long drive home after a night of drinking and schmoozing with the moneybags of the city. I thought I'd just stay over at a hotel."

"Are you sure?" Clark questioned with concern. "I can come pick you up, if you want."

"No, no. I'll be fine, sweetie, thank you."

Clark nodded, then looked up and noticed the dress draped across the bed. It was a sleek, silk, deep purple gown lined with lace, which boasted an extremely immodest, plunging neckline. He raised an eyebrow. "Is that what you're wearing tonight?"

"Yes," Martha repied, nonchalantly. "Why? You don't like it?"

"No, it's nice, I just…well, there's not exactly a whole lot going on in the…top area there."

She rolled her eyes at her overprotective son. "Clark."

"What? It's not a big deal, I guess I've just…figured out how you manage to sway some of the swing votes out there in Washington."

"Clark Kent!" Martha exclaimed, taking offense.

He chuckled and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Relax, Mom, I was kidding. It's good that you're…getting out there again."

"I am not getting out anywhere," she answered sternly, folding a sweater and placing it in the suitcase. "I'm just trying to fit in. Washington's not exactly receptive to jeans and plaid, you know."

"Yeah, but…you know, Mom, it's been almost three years since Dad died. I know he wouldn't want you to be alone any more than I'm sure you want to be alone."

Martha sighed and fixed him with her death glare. "I am not having this conversation with you, Clark."

Clark threw up his hands in defeat. "All right, all right, I surrender."

She smirked at him, one eyebrow lifted. "Wise move."

The sign outside the ballroom at the Hyatt told him he was in the right place when he arrived, and he entered the room with a strong air of confidence to mask his terror at seeing the object of his affection again. Lionel waltzed around the room, stopping only for those he felt were worthy of this company. He drank a bit too much champagne and occasionally crossed the line over into taboo topics of conversation. He talked politics with the mayor's daughter and explored the subject of religion with an ex-rabbi named Samuel, outwardly embracing all points of view, but inwardly judging those who disagreed with him. He avoided eye contact uncomfortably as he slowly backed away from a sparring couple whose recent foray into counseling had apparently done them more harm than good, and listened with reluctant interest to the winner of the most recent Pulitzer Prize in journalism. The characters present weren't atypical; he ran into the very same ones at each and every gathering of the privileged and high-minded he attended. It was a routine he had accepted and grown into. He no longer questioned the idiosyncrasies of the other guests or doubted his own. They were the same.

Though loosely engaged in a discussion about Piaget's theories of child development with a published psychiatrist, Lionel's eyes began to wander aimlessly. He admired the elaborate décor that dressed the ballroom and eyed the buffet with thoughts of returning to it a third time. He noticed his friends and his foes, heard the sharp hyena laugh of a certain man he never wished to do business with again, and smiled at a young couple in the corner, completely engrossed in one another. It was then, looking past the ice sculpture, that he saw her.

It had been too long for him to be sure, yet he was. It wasn't that she looked the same -- no, in fact, her hair was both shorter and darker, slightly layered to perfection, resting effortlessly on her shoulders -- it was looking at her that felt the same. It wasn't her appearance, it was the feeling that overcame him upon seeing her. He could see no one else. There were voices, conversations wrapping around him, words that meant nothing, phrases that didn't quite make it into sentences.

There she was, talking to both the ex-rabbi and the mayor's daughter. He watched her smile, presumably in response to the ex-rabbi's laughable take on organized religion, and glance fleetingly in his direction. She turned back to her discussion, out of habit, then quickly her eyes darted back and met his. Her lips parted slightly and even from a distance he could see the sharp intake of breath. Conversations continued around her as they did around him, and no one seemed to notice the tears building up in her eyes. He wanted to turn his head, he wanted to look away, but as long as her eyes met his, there could be nothing else that interested him.

Suddenly he saw her begin to blink rapidly and knew she had been hit by reality. Flustered, she looked all around her, as if she had lost something, then excused herself from the circle she had, for the last five or ten minutes, been apart of. Her eyes locked with his, and he was rendered motionless as she slowly walked in his direction as her face broke into a radiant, knowing smile. He smiled back, struck by her beauty, the glow that surrounded her. So little had changed.

They moved toward one another, slowly closing the gap that separated them, both enthralled and slightly sheepish. When the gap had been closed, they stood in the middle of the dance floor, surrounding by couples in motion.

"Mr. Luthor."

"Senator Kent."

TBC.