Disclaimer: Portions of dialogue, as well as plot points, are taken from 'Home Is Where The Hurt Is,' written by William M. Akers and Eugenie Ross-Leming & Brad Buckner. No copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: This story is different than most I usually write (but then, I think I might say that about all of them), and though there isn't a lot of action in it, I hope the characters' dire plights will be enough to interest readers. There are five chapters, and all are completed; I'll post one a day. Thanks for reading, and enjoy!
-S-
Souvenirs and mementos tastefully decorated Clark's apartment, tangible memories of the years he had spent searching the world for a place to belong. There was no rhyme or reason to them; a facsimile of a terracotta warrior—presently with a big red bow tied around its neck in the spirit of the season—was situated in a corner opposite the wall where a hand-woven rug from Australia hung over a few glass-blown figurines from Spain and a death-mask from Africa. The only thing that bound all the objects together was location and meaning.
Each item meant something to Clark.
Jonathan remembered the story Clark had told about finding a settlement of aborigines who had, upon discovering that he spoke their native tongue, accepted him into their lives and showed him how to weave the vibrant threads into tribal patterns. Clark had been forced to leave the friendly natives when a young boy began telling tales about how the American had floated him up and out of a well.
The terracotta warriors had fascinated Clark, and Jonathan felt a wistful smile shape his mouth as he remembered the excitement bubbling in Clark's eyes and the words spilling from his lips as he explained how he had been able to use his telescopic vision to see the individual strokes used by those who had fashioned the original statues. He had fled China when individuals in several towns had spoken enough about the miracles flowering through their region that a larger city's newspaper had run the story.
The death-mask had been a gift from a Nigerian princess who had urged Clark to flee before her people connected him to the "spirit" that had pulled several warriors from the destruction of an earthquake. The figurines had been acquired shortly before leaving a step ahead of an investigation into a string of foiled muggings and rapes. He had bought and shipped the books from England to Smallville because he had been forced to book a plane he had no intention of boarding simply to evade the scrutiny of a newspaper intent on uncovering the story behind alleged "guardian angel" sightings.
More odds and ends from Borneo, Bangkok, Bolivia, Saudi Arabia, and Italy adorned the shelves and walls all about Jonathan, and yet instead of connecting Clark to the world he had sworn to protect, they only served to further isolate him—proof that he could live in one place only briefly before his differences and his need to help endangered his anonymity.
Until, that was, Superman.
Superman had given Clark the chance to help as he felt morally compelled to do yet still retain the normal life he craved so much.
Jonathan frowned at the furnishings all around him, a bitter taste in his mouth.
Superman had also made his son a target for every villain in the world, a red and blue blur that might as well have been a bull's-eye.
"So, I guess this is what being sick feels like," Clark had said in an attempt to ease the fear of the three people who knew him best—who knew all of him, or rather, both of him. It hadn't worked.
"Sick," Jonathan muttered, his eyes following Martha as she made her thirteenth trip to the door to look for Clark's arrival. "Clark never gets sick."
"He'll be all right," Martha assured them both, her voice too loud in the quiet, empty apartment—empty because it was devoid of purpose without Clark to give meaning to the mementos and belongings and furnishings.
"Of course," Jonathan said uselessly. Then, because he couldn't quite help himself, he muttered, "How long does it take to deliver a tree to the Coates Orphanage, anyway?"
A small smile graced Martha's lips. "Superman could probably do it in three seconds flat if he needed to."
Jonathan smiled back, taking her hand in his. "But we both know Clark will take longer. He'll give the kids a chance to exclaim over their superhero."
"And he'll make a plea for the orphans' futures," Martha added proudly. "And if he hears any cries for help, he'll answer them, of course."
"Martha…" Jonathan swallowed. "Martha, I don't think he's well enough to help anyone. I'm not saying that he won't try, but I've never seen him so weak, not even after…"
"After the Kryptonite," Martha bravely finished for him.
Unable to face remembering the times when he had seen his indomitable son felled by the lethal stone, Jonathan turned away. "Well, maybe there's something on the news about him."
He picked up the remote and flicked the power button, but inwardly he was praying that Superman's name wouldn't even be mentioned. The last thing Clark needed was news of his sickness flashed across every television screen in the world, informing the criminals that it was safe for them to come out and play.
There was a brief report that Superman had made his annual appearance at the orphanage, and then the newscasters moved on to more exciting stories. A part of Jonathan was relieved; the rest of him was consumed with worry for his son.
Though he continued to stare at the TV, he couldn't have said what else was shown. Martha paced and tidied and worried. She was filled with a nervous energy that Jonathan had grown familiar with over the years. Generally, his wife was vibrancy cloaked in gentleness and sharp wit; now, the cloak was slipping, as it did when her emotions got the best of her.
Not that his own emotions were much more controlled at this point, Jonathan admitted to himself as he stuck his hands in his back pockets to hide their trembling.
"Jonathan," Martha whispered, and he instantly turned to her. That note of weary longing was the cue he had been waiting for, the sign that it was now safe to pull her into his arms, to ground her restless flight with his solid embrace. He gave her no words—words had never been his forte—but he clasped her tightly to himself and gave comfort even as he partook of it.
"He'll be all right," he murmured into her hair, praying that the simple statement would become a fulfilled prophecy. "He's strong."
A scuffle outside the door made both the Kents freeze and turn their heads toward the noise in unconscious imitation of Clark's far-off listening pose.
"Jonathan! Martha! Help me!"
Martha was first to the door, but Jonathan was just behind her. He froze when he caught sight of Clark collapsed on the ground, Lois doing her best to support him, half-caught beneath his weight. With a gasp, Martha flew to Clark's side, her hand instantly going to his forehead, her eyes filled with tears.
"He made his speech and got out of sight, but then he collapsed," Lois hurriedly explained, her voice breaking with the tears she refused to let fall. "I got him into a cab and brought him here—don't worry, the driver thought he was a look-alike. I mean, what else was he supposed to think? Superman never gets sick. Anyway, I knew he wouldn't want anyone to see him, and I tried to get him inside, but he passed out, and now I can't get him to wake up or respond or look at me or—"
"Hush," Martha said soothingly, her hand on Lois's shoulder halting the brook that had so quickly sped past them. She said more, but Jonathan didn't listen to the reassuring words; he could only stare down at his son. What scared him the most was the fact that Clark was still dressed in the Superman Suit—if he had possessed even an iota of extra strength, Jonathan was sure Clark would have changed into his regular clothes. But he hadn't, and now he lay pale and sweating and unconscious just outside his apartment.
And, Jonathan asked himself, what would happen when they got him inside? What would they do? What could they do? None of them were doctors; none of them knew anything about Kryptonian physiology. How could they help him?
"Jonathan, help Lois get him inside," Martha directed. "I'll grab some cold water and washcloths—we can't let him get as hot as he was earlier."
Between them, Jonathan and Lois managed to wrestle Clark up the front steps, though the door, down through the living room, and into his bedroom. Jonathan would have preferred to lower Clark more gently onto his bed, but this was one instance where that dense molecular structure was more a liability than a blessing.
"My boy," Jonathan couldn't resist murmuring, a vise gripping his heart as he looked down on the son he had once thought he would never have. But looking down at Clark like this only served to dredge up memories of another terrible night in a darkened workshop in Smallville, Kansas.
"I'll help you get the water," Lois volunteered, as full of nervous energy as Jonathan's wife, both of them imbued with the need to do.
Jonathan was only dimly aware that they left the room. Tenderly, he lifted Clark's legs onto the bed and arranged his son in as comfortable a position as he could manage.
He had, Jonathan realized suddenly, bought into the Superman myth Clark so decried. Somewhere along the way—maybe after seeing him emerge unscathed from falls out of his tree-house or painful misses with the sledgehammer or too long a time under the broken ice of their lake, or maybe after watching the news as his son raced into erupting volcanoes or held nuclear bombs as they exploded or tamed a tsunami by simple virtue of his own speed and ingenuity—Jonathan had started to believe that his son was just as invulnerable and unstoppable as the world believed him to be. He had forgotten that no one was completely invincible and that just as his son's tender heart could be broken, so could his body be weakened and hurt.
"I'm sorry, Dad." Clark's voice was a pale shadow of his usual strength, his eyes glazed even as he did his best to meet his father's gaze.
"For what, son?" Jonathan dropped a hand to rest on Clark's shoulder, careful to keep the pressure light lest it worsen his already-labored breathing.
Clark clearly struggled to get the words out. "Well, you guys get sick all the time yet still manage to keep going. I should be stronger."
"If your mother heard you say that, she'd probably smack you," Jonathan said, his smile just as faded as Clark's voice. "You have nothing at all to apologize for, son, and don't ever think you do. You'll be all right."
How many times had they all said something similar to that statement, Jonathan wondered, and why didn't he believe it yet?
Clark's lips tried to curve upward, but he couldn't seem to summon the energy needed to complete the smile. "I love you, Dad," he murmured before sliding into a light, troubled doze.
The vise around Jonathan's heart squeezed even tighter. That had sounded too much like a goodbye.
When Martha bustled back into the room, her hands filled with a bowl of ice-water and several washcloths and Lois just behind her, Jonathan numbly moved back out of their way.
"So, I guess this is what being sick feels like." Clark's words rang once more through Jonathan's mind. He only wished they did not sound more foreboding with each recollection.
-S-
21 years ago…
Jonathan closed the bedroom door softly behind him; Martha had just gotten to sleep, and he didn't want to risk waking her. The spoon clinked against the half-empty bowl in his hands, and he winced, only breathing out a sigh of relief when he didn't hear any stirring from within the bedroom. With soft steps—or at least as soft as he could make them—he made his way downstairs to deposit the dishes in the sink. It had taken a lot of coaxing, but he had finally managed to get Martha to try the chicken soup—made by Mrs. Irig, thankfully, not him.
"Daddy?"
Jonathan whirled away from the sink, his heart pounding a rapid tempo against his chest. "Clark! You startled me. Is everything all right?" His tone turned from jovial to concerned as he got a good look at the dejected, wilting boy hovering on the threshold of the kitchen. "Come here, son."
Tentatively, as if unsure of his welcome, the boy who had brought laughter and light and miracles back into Jonathan and Martha's life eased his way into the kitchen. When Jonathan held out a welcoming hand, Clark let out a relieved sigh and collapsed into his father's arms. Jonathan tucked him close, marveling once again at the feel of the child who called him Dad.
"What's wrong, Clark?" he asked softly. He tried to cover his grunt as he picked the boy up and set him in his lap. Even as a baby, Clark had always weighed more than he should have, an oddity his loving parents found all too easy to overlook in favor of the love they held for him.
Clark fisted a hand in Jonathan's shirt but kept his gaze fixed on his chest, as if he did not dare look into his eyes.
"Clark?" Jonathan prompted. Martha was so much better at these moments where intuitive understanding seemed to be a prerequisite, but Jonathan didn't think Clark's despair could wait. "You can tell me anything," he added, a hint of uneasiness uncoiling in the pit of his stomach. An image of the ship, and the baby lying so tranquilly within it, flashed through Jonathan's mind.
Finally, Clark lifted his head and granted Jonathan a glimpse of misted-brown eyes under ebony brows drawn down with some dismal emotion. "Dad, what's wrong with Mom? Is she…is she going to…" The last of his question was uttered too softly for Jonathan to hear, but Clark looked up anxiously, awaiting the answer.
"You mother's sick with the flu, son." Jonathan frowned. "She'll be better in a day or two. Until then, she just needs rest and a bit of extra care."
Clark's expression lit up with an inner brilliance that took Jonathan's breath away and stirred that fierce protectiveness he hadn't even known he possessed until those strange government men had come asking their probing questions and looking suspiciously at the baby clutched protectively in Martha's arms. "You mean…she's not going to die?"
"Die?" Jonathan repeated, startled by the mere notion. "Of course not. It's just the flu."
"But…she barely ate anything—and she was crying in the bathroom this morning. I heard her."
Jonathan felt that flicker of uneasiness stir once more from its wary slumber. Clark had been outside doing his chores when Martha had made her torturous trip to the bathroom, a long distance for him to have heard his mother's discomfort. Unconsciously, Jonathan's arms tightened around his son, holding him closer, shielding him from the world and his own uneasiness and whatever Clark's strange past would make of his future.
"Everyone gets sick, Clark," he explained awkwardly. "It's just the way things are. But usually they get better and are back to normal in a couple days. Your mother generally gets the flu about once or twice a year, sometimes less. It's not fun, but it's not fatal either."
"Why haven't I ever gotten sick?" Clark looked up at Jonathan expectantly, awaiting the answer he thought his father always had. How could he know that this time his dad didn't know what to say? How could Jonathan explain to this vulnerable boy that he didn't understand why the baby who had fallen from the sky never showed any pain while teething, never caught a cough or a sniffle, never missed school on account of the flu—and that they might never know the reason?
"Because you're special," Jonathan finally said thickly, looking down at Clark and wondering how anyone could love someone so much. He didn't care what happened to himself, or what the answers to their many subdued questions about Clark's origins were, or how many more moments of uneasiness he would have concerning his son's differences—he only knew that he would do anything and everything to keep Clark safe and happy.
"You're special," he repeated, "and I love you very, very much. Now, since your mom is sick and needs special care, what do you say you make her a nice card telling her how much you love her?"
Clark was instantly excited about the project, already slipping from Jonathan's lap to retrieve his beloved crayons and pencils. "I'll write her a really nice note," he promised, that lock of hair stubbornly flopping over his forehead as it always did. "And I'll draw her a picture. What do you think I should draw for her? Something that she loves more than anything else in the world!"
"You," Jonathan said with a fond smile. "Draw her a picture of you—that's what she loves most."
His small hand patted Jonathan's arm comfortingly. "I'll draw us both, Dad, because she loves you too. And I'll write and tell her how much we love her and are sorry that she's hurting and that we hope she gets better soon."
"She loves your notes." Jonathan shook his head, thinking of the stash Martha kept of every note Clark had ever written to her—and there had been a great many of them during the last four years. He still remembered the day Clark had walked into the kitchen and stunned his parents by announcing that he had learned to read since Martha had taught him to write the alphabet the day before. Jonathan knew he was a bit biased, but he thought Clark was incredibly intelligent and remarkably skilled, for an eight-year old child, at conveying his thoughts through the written word.
"Daddy?" Clark shyly looked up from his art supplies. "When I finish making the card, can I see Mom?"
Jonathan ruffled the boy's hair to hide the rush of warm tenderness engulfing him. "Of course, son. I think that will make her feel better all by itself."
"Really?" Clark smiled his beautiful, uplifting smile. "So, even if I don't get sick, I can help when other people do?"
"Of course, Clark. You can always help."
And when Clark finished his card and showed it to his father, Jonathan squelched his uneasiness at how striking the likenesses were and how fast the boy had drawn them, and he took Clark's hand and led him upstairs to pay Martha a visit.