Disclaimers: I don't own them. I just like to put words in their mouths and minds.
Warnings: This is slashy and you've been warned.
Rating: PG-13
Archive: Surely. Just let me know.
Feedback: Oy! Please, yes!
Author's notes: Thank you to all who reviewed. Believe me when I say you are directly responsible for this story continuing. I had no plans to do so, but what can I say? I'm a total push-over for praise. So, please, keep it coming!
This is a sequel to "In Clark's Mind" which can be found at Fanfiction.net at the following address: http://www.fanfiction.net/read.php?storyid=1035889 It's not integral to understanding this one, but it might make it more fun.
Alien Thoughts
By Lemur
The rip roaring sound of a chain saw broke through the morning silence and Clark opened his eyes, thinking precisely what he thought every morning.
I'm an alien.
He sometimes wondered what it would be like to wake up in the morning thinking something else. He knew he used to wake up with all sorts of different thoughts in his head, but now no matter how bizarre his dream or how deeply absorbed in Lana-musing he was when he fell asleep, he always awakened to that exact same thought.
I'm an alien.
"Clark, honey," his mother shouted up the stairs. "It's time to get up."
"I'm up," he mumbled loudly. Not that his father's unexplainable penchant for sawing first thing in the morning hadn't rendered all other options impossible. He staggered out of bed, silently longing for the irritating buzz of his alarm clock rather than a chain saw.
I'm an alien.
His sleep-clouded mind seemed stuck on one note. He knew it was usually a few minutes before thoughts like school, friends and Lana got there. Letting out a long yawn, he idly wondered if he even needed sleep, alien as he was, and if, as a kid, he had seen that Pete yawned early in the morning and had simply pretended. Pretended to the point where he actually felt like he needed to yawn.
Learning his origins had made him think things like that all the time, about everything. His whole understanding of himself had been ripped away.
His mother had told him that all teenagers feel like aliens. Of course, he pointed out that not all teenagers had a spaceship in their storm cellar, or could bench press a backhoe or – she hadn't really needed him to say any more before she admitted defeat. Instead, she told him that it just made him extra special.
If he put aside the gooey Mom-ness part of it that he liked even if he'd never admit it, he could agree with her. He was special, even if he thought "freaky" was a better word for it.
A million different questions surfaced in his mind each day. For weeks, his parents heard nearly every one over breakfast. They went largely unanswered – sometimes because they didn't have answers, but usually because Clark asked so many in succession and without pause that they never had an opportunity to open their mouths, let alone speak.
Now that he thought about it, maybe he was capable of talking faster than normal people, too.
"Clark Kent, I don't want you missing that bus today," his mother yelled, with a loving sharpness only a mother could manage.
The bus, he thought with a roll of his eyes. He could outrun the bus. He could lift the bus. He could pick up the bus and carry it to school faster than it could get him there by riding. And his mom knew all that. She only said it to make him feel more normal. Other mothers had to hurry their sons, so she hurried hers. In his fully-awake hours, he actually appreciated it.
Clark wandered over to his closet, blindly grabbing clothes in the half-light of his bedroom. A pair of jeans and whatever shirt. Another helpful nod from his mother: "blue jeans match everything, honey." And as for his shirts, all primary colors match one another, so he could mix with utter certainty that he would match. He wondered if his entire race were so oblivious to fashion.
Eventually, he'd stopped asking questions, not because he stopped coming up with them, but because he could tell it upset his parents to be reminded of how little they knew or perhaps how little they had told him.
Still, he thought about it almost constantly. He wondered about his biological parents and his – how bizarre to even be able to use these words outside a science fiction movie – his home planet. Maybe that was why he fixated on Lana so much, to have something normal and beautiful filling his mind rather than a bunch of unanswerable questions.
He wondered what would happen if he committed a crime. Could he plead "I'm an alien" as a defense? But that one at least would never be tested. The long arm of the law technically couldn't stop him, but the normal-length arm of his Dad could halt him dead in his tracks.
Pulling on his jeans one leg at a time, he wondered if maybe his race – whatever they were called – put their pants on two legs at a time. Or maybe they didn't even wear pants. Perhaps they were a race of space-dwelling Scotsman, wearing kilts and sashes. He snorted out loud at his own thoughts. He still had tons of questions, yes, but not all of them were good ones.
When he'd found out about the spaceship and everything – well, weeks after he'd found out and stopped being angry at his parents for not telling him, and stopped being creeped out by his own face in the mirror, he'd done research. He'd always read news articles about fast runners or people with increased strength just to find some precedent for what he was able to do, but now he wanted to know in what ways he wasn't human.
Anatomy had come first – and hadn't that been an embarrassing day at the Smallville Library: hunched over a sleek volume that insisted on having HUMAN ANATOMY emblazoned on its spine, constantly afraid he would hear Chloe or Pete come up behind him with a "Hey, Clark. Wha'cha lookin' at?"
He knew he probably should have tested his memory or his hearing range first, but he really could not have cared less about all of that provided he looked the same as the other boys without his clothes on.
He thought he did, but then he'd never really taken a close look at anyone but himself – nor would he. The mere idea of asking Pete or his dad and he was blushing red for five minutes straight, humiliated by the thought alone. Books were a far less socially damaging and emotionally scarring route and he had found all he needed to know, along with a lot he didn't want to know, but he declared it to be all in the name of romance.
After all, he fully expected to one day be naked in the company of a woman. And that would most certainly not be the time to find out he didn't look entirely human.
Deciding to forgo a shower, Clark pulled a red t-shirt on over his head. He felt too tired to speed through washing his hair and he smelled okay, so that would have to be good enough. He had gym today anyway. No point in getting showered to go to school, get sweaty and take a shower.
His parents never said anything, but his grades had suffered in the wake of the great revelation. Clark didn't know if they had felt guilty and didn't mention it, or if they were just unaware. The first one, he guessed. Jokingly to himself, he decided it was proof that he didn't come from a race of highly intelligent beings, but he knew it was really because everything sort of lost its relevance.
In English class, he'd try to pay attention to The Lord of the Flies, but then he would wonder what language his race spoke, or if they'd ever even heard English, or visited Earth, or if maybe they communicated by cave-drawings or sign language, or if they thought they would revert to cannibalism if stranded on an island.
Which lead to, did their planet have islands? Did it have water or was it made up entirely of sand? Was it cold? Hot? Did it have a whole other group of animals unlike anything on Earth? And all sorts of different plants?
In Math class, he would try to focus on fractions, but then he would wonder what sort of math they had and if the same rules applied. Did they all hate long division or was that just him?
And his science classes were impossible. In Introduction to Physics, Clark listened to the teacher explaining the "unbreakable laws of physics," knowing that he could go out in the hallway and break nearly every one.
Grabbing his backpack from the floor, Clark walked to the stairs and trotted down into the kitchen. His mother stood at the counter, simultaneously pouring a cup of coffee and reading the stock report, which was, no doubt, a quick review before she went to work at the Luthor mansion.
Hearing him thump down the stairs, she lowered the button on the toaster, sending his Pop Tarts in for a roast. He smiled at the image. His mom, it was either a full-out country breakfast of pancakes and hash browns or it was Pop Tarts. No in between with this woman and for some reason he liked that.
The screen door opened with a familiar creek and his dad walked in. "Good morning, son."
"Morning, Dad." He tossed his backpack on the counter and stood to wait beside the toaster. His father poured himself a glass of orange juice and cast a sidelong glance at his wife. He had solved the mystery of her reading choice as well and was far less amused by it. He put on what Clark thought of as his "Luthor frown." Clark sighed inwardly. His father, the master of grudges.
He couldn't blame him for disliking Lionel Luthor, Clark wasn't sure he liked him either, but Lex wasn't Lionel. Lex was…Lex. And he realized that if he couldn't come up with a more coherent reason than that for liking Lex than he was either still asleep or far too infatuated for his own good. Instantly, his mind whispered that it was the latter so he decided to talk and drown it out.
"Thanks for the alarm, Dad," he stated with a grin. "There's nothing like waking up to the gentle sound of a chain saw."
His father smirked at him. "I notice it worked better than your actual alarm clock." He stepped over to his wife and kissed her on the cheek. "I'll be in the south field most of the day, if you need me."
"All right, honey," she replied with a loving smile, watching him as he walked back outside.
Clark wanted to grin. His parents were just cute. Granted, as a teenager, he knew he was supposed to accuse them of cramping his style or embarrassing him by being so uncool –
both of which they did – but he liked them anyway.
They'd told him that he had found them and he enjoyed thinking that was true. Perhaps his race were especially perceptive, but then…well, the whole Chloe fiasco kind of proved that wasn't the case, at least not for him. So maybe it was more of a homing beacon. He had crash-landed on a world that wasn't his, but his heart had simply known which direction to go to find his home. Cheesy, Clark, very cheesy, he thought.
When he was younger, he tried his hardest to look like his dad. It didn't make much difference since everyone in Smallville knew he was adopted, but he liked to pretend. He liked to look at his face and see an expression that looked like his father's or see that his eyes looked similar if he narrowed them just so. It made the adoption feel less happenstance. It made it feel as if he were truly his son.
And he was, Clark told himself resolutely, glancing down at the red heating lines in the toaster. He was their son without a doubt, but it unsettled him to think how much chance had ruled that. Had the ship not landed in Kansas, had it even landed one hundred feet from where it had, he might be someone else's son. And that scared him more than anything.
"Why am I waiting on this toaster?" he said aloud, distracting himself. "I could cook these things faster with my eyes."
His mother laughed abruptly, putting down the newspaper. "It can only have a few seconds left, Clark. If you're that impatient, you're welcome to get a few chores done while you're waiting." She arched an eyebrow.
Just then, the tarts popped. "Oh, look at that," he said with mock dismay. "I can't let them get cold, now can I?"
"Wouldn't really matter," she replied. "I'm sure your eyes have a reheat setting."
He grinned. It wasn't often his mom made a powers-related joke. "Nice, Mom," he teased. Smiling, she looked up through the window. Taking a bite of his "breakfast," Clark peered out through the panes to see the yellow rectangle of the bus rumbling down the road toward their house.
"There's the bus now," she said. "Go, go, go." And in a blur, he was gone.
***
This most certainly shall be continued. For those of you who are feeling disgruntled that this isn't more Lex-centric like the last one, just wait. I said this was slashy and I meant it. Yay!
Please, oh, please review. But nevertheless, thank you for reading. I appreciate it.