Warnings:
This is a slash fic and in later chapters, it will have sex scenes both
between Lex and Clark, and a few rape scenes between Lionel and Lex.
I do not own any of these people, and all the events in all the chapters
are fictional
This is a very dark, hard to read fic, you have been warned
I'm not sure if I can give this a happy ending, at least not a completely
happy one anyway.
HELP! I need somebody, HELP! Not just anybody. You know I need someone, HELP! When I was younger, so much younger than today I never needed anybody's help in anyway but now I find Those days are gone and I'm not so self-assured. Now I find I've changed my mind I'd open up the door. ~~~The Beatles~~~
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------
"Lex had another break down a few years ago. None of the doctors could figure out what had caused it. He just kept on crying, and screaming and wetting his pants. Finally they did a cat scan of his head. There was a brain tumor the size of a lemon. Inoperable, they said, there was no way any doctor could remove it and Lex could live. So instead they put him through a year of radical chemotherapy every week. On the next test, the tumor was so small that the neurosurgeons decided that they could operate safely. Lex didn't want the surgery, he told me the night before he went under the knife.
"'I scared.' He said. The poor guy had reverted to a childlike stage his psychiatrist, a new one; we had to get a new one every other month because Lex has so many trust issues, said. Lex was a mess. He could barely function anymore. He couldn't work, but luckily Lionel hadn't frozen his trust fund. We had more money than we could ever spend, even with the medical bills. Lex could not dress, bathe, or feed himself any longer. He also needed to wear diapers.
"When we were both in the house and nobody else was around, he didn't mind too much. I never made him wear clothes; he hated them, except when it was really cold. Then I put him sweats. When we had to leave to go to the doctors, or my parents, I had to put Lex in jeans or something else that was appropriate. He fought me every time, and if he even had half the strength he used to, I would have given up. But Lex couldn't hurt a fly, literally.
"'It's okay baby,' I told him as we lay in the tiny hospital bed, Lex curled up in a ball between my knees and my chin. He was crying; I could feel the tears through my shirt, but that was nothing new. Lex cried a good 30-50% of the time. 'I'll be holding your hand the whole time, and we'll be able to talk to each other, okay?' Lex didn't respond. He pretty much stopped talking after that night. Once in a while he would make sobbing noises with his tears, and even more rarely he would scream in frustration when he soiled himself, even though the diapers made it easy to clean up.
"I know it's selfish, but I missed talking to him, a lot. Lex was always so brilliant, so kind, so sweet, so . . . Goddamn it. Why did this have to happen to him? He was in so much pain most of the time, but he doesn't talk. I was able to talk the doctor into giving us one of those morphine pumps to take home so that Lex could be comfortable. It wasn't too hard, what with all the money we've got. That's the only thing I will ever thank Lionel for. I know how to break the computer so that I could give Lex enough morphine so that he'd never be in pain again. I could make the monsters go away for ever. I could . . . but I can't I'm not a murder. I'm not like that. I think Lionel would do something like that, and maybe the old Lex too, but not me. I guess I'm just a big chicken.
"Nights were the worst for Lex. I think he was always afraid of the dark, but the first mental breakdown, the radical electroshock therapy, the pressure, the molestation during his early childhood by Lionel, the failed suicide attempt the year his mother died, the second breakdown which actually turned out to be a brain tumor, the chemo, the surgery, and everything else that's happened since, have made it so much worse.
"If it wasn't for me, Lex wouldn't eat anymore. I wake up every morning and I ask him if he is hungry. Once in a great while, I get a shrug. Otherwise, all that happens is that Lex stares into space. During chemo the only thing he could keep down was chocolate, so I would go to the grocery store and buy entire cartons of the stuff. You know what I mean, those huge crates which have 1000 boxes of chocolate bars in them. Lex would have a snickers bar for breakfast, hot chocolate in a bowl, we called it chocolate soup when he was still talking, for lunch, and M&Ms for dinner. Sometimes he'd eat ice cream with hot fudge, and about a million other types of candy bars. It's amazing he never got sick of it. I think he must have, but anything else was rejected by his stomach and so it was all I could do to keep him from starving to death.
"Eventually they put a catheter, that's a thing they use on people who go through as much chemo as Lex did because their veins don't work anymore. Basically it delivers the medicine, or in Lex's case, medicine and nutrition directly into the blood stream. Then he didn't have to eat anything else anymore. And it was a good thing too, because Lex basically started to refuse food. Sometimes I could get him to eat a little something but most days, weeks, maybe even months, forget it.
"Anyway, back to the morphine. Once, when he was still capable of talking, Lex told me that he hated the way the drugs made him feel.
''I almost think that the pain would be better, but I'm a wimp when it comes to stuff like that. I can't handle pain.'
'What the hell are you talking about? You're the strongest person I know. Think of all the hardships you've been through in life. And you survived.'
'Yeah, and I turned into this. I can't even control my bladder anymore, Clark. Fix the machine. Please? You don't have to do anything except program it so I can give myself enough morphine so that even you couldn't get me to the hospital fast enough.'
'No.'
'If you loved me you'd do it.'
"I felt like punching him as hard as I could. I knew that could probably kill him, one because of how strong I was and two because of how weak he had gotten."
'If you loved me, you wouldn't ask.'
'Alright, Clark, you win. Aww, ow fuck.'
'What's wrong?' "I ran over from where I had been sitting on a chair across the room, desperately trying to work on an article that needed to be finished, and getting nowhere. That was two weeks before I got fired from my job at the planet. Lex wasn't happy that it happened, but you could tell he was glad I was going to be around all of the time. 'Does it hurt Lex?' he nodded and so I fixed the machine so he could have more pain meds even though it was much too soon I could do it enough so he could be comfortable and not kill himself, I guess I'm just "lucky" in that way.
"After the surgery, Lex didn't stop talking completely, he just got really quiet. He rarely ate, and spent most of the day, when he wasn't looking at me with those eyes, those soft, sad, terror filled eyes, sleeping. That was one nice thing about the morphine. If someone could sit next to him, and press the button whenever it was available, Lex could sleep for days on end. And a lot of the time he did.
"When he wasn't sleeping, I'd read him warrior angel comics, and hold them so he could see the pictures. We watched movies and TV together, and sometimes I'd just lie in bed and hold him.
"I kept sending him to a psychiatrist, because I didn't know what to say when he said stuff about his father fucking him as a five-year-old, or what happened to him at boarding school, or the way Lionel beat the shit out of him for attempting suicide, I never knew what to say. Sometimes Lex would trust the shrink long enough to stop telling the person lies, and start opening up to him or her.
"But then his delusions would get in the way, and I'd have to fire them. Every single one of them felt bad for Lex, and they always told me so. They hoped I would find someone who could fix him, they said. But I knew they didn't care all that much about his well being. Lex had lost most of his cynicism along with the section of his brain they carved out, and it must have all gone to me. I started to believe that everyone who was 'helping' me and Lex were only after his money. Although, I was probably right to at least some degree.
"That was eight years ago. Less than two year since I had finished college, ten months I had been fired from the paper, and six months since Lex had said anything that a person above the age of six was capable of saying. He could no longer write anything more complicated than his name, and he sometimes got that wrong too. When he did write it, the signature looked like that of a child just learning how to write, one having an extremely difficult time.
"Lex knew that there was a lot wrong with him, and he would ask me about it. But I knew I couldn't explain it to him, since he wasn't capable of understanding. All I could do, was hold him, and kiss his head or cheeks, the only places he was capable of being touched without resorting to screaming and punching. Not that he could ever hurt me in his weakened physical condition, but I was worried that he would do harm to himself. After a while, I started to lie to him. I felt bad about it, but I knew it was better for him. I said he was sick but that he would get better very soon. I think in my heart I knew that wasn't true."
A loud wind-up alarm clock on Dr. Susan Leach's desk let out a long whinny buzz. She turned it off, and looked from her notepad; she had used up eight pages of it today, on the young-man's first session, to the boy himself. Clark Kent had been recommended to her for grief counseling after his significant other, Alexander Joseph, Luthor had died of Cancer. Today he had come in with fresh tears on his cheeks, and his hands shaking. She had told to make him comfortable.
Clark had spent twenty minutes trying. He gave up finally saying, 'fuck it.' And he lay down on the sofa. He spent the rest of the session there, staring up at the sealing, occasionally looking at Susan to see if she was paying attention to him. Clark got chocked up several times during his session, and at one point had vomited into a waist basket near him. Another thing she noticed was the way Clark referred to Lex in the present tense even though he has been dead for almost a year.
Susan wanted very much to help the young man. She knew, however, that he was for the most part beyond help. There were some psychiatric drugs that would take his mind off things, level out his emotions, and more therapy would eventually help him to realize that Lex Luthor's death had not been his fault. Also, more sessions would help him understand that he had done more than anybody else ever would have. He must have amazing patience, she thought to herself.
"Can I leave now?" Clark asked He stood up and walked towards the door.
"I'm going to give you a prescription for Paxill. It's an antidepressant. Unlike most drugs of its type, though, it starts working right away. Most antidepressants take almost two months to completely take effect, and the first two weeks of treatment under them is agony. I'm going to write you a script for thirty milligram tablets. Take one a day, about an hour before you go to bed. I'm going to schedule for an appointment a week from today at the same time is that okay?" Clark nodded. He was silent for a moment, and then opened his mouth. It took almost ten minutes to get out the next sentence.
"I don't sleep much."
"These will help you with that too."
"Whatever," Clark took the script from the woman, and walked out of the office. He took the elevator to the bottom floor, and walked out of the building. Once outside he tossed the sheet of paper into a trashcan. He walked to the bus stop, road it to the most rural part of Metropolis he could find, and got off. After checking to see that nobody was around, he ran home, to Smallville at almost one hundred miles an hour. He knocked on the door of the decrepit looking farm house. Martha Kent answered. She barely recognized the man who was standing on her doorstep, but knew immediately that he was her son.
She enveloped him in a hug, and held him for what seemed like a long time to both of them. When Jonathan came into the house later that evening, he took one look at his son, and mumbled something. Clark who was sitting at the table with his head buried in his arms, looked up with tear stained cheeks.
"What did you say?"
"I said, I told you not to get involved with Lex Luthor, when you were fourteen, but you didn't listen, did you." Clark ran towards his father at full speed and was barely able to stop himself before causing serious damage. Clark's body stopped inches away from Jonathan's, any closer and the older man surely would have died. His father stared at him for a minute and said nothing. Then the boy turned around and started walking to his room. Once he was out of what Martha considered to be ear short, she slapped her husband on the shoulder.
"How could you say that to him? Can't you see how much pain he is in?"
"And he wouldn't be, if he had just stayed away from Lex."
"Did you ever do anything your father told you to do when you were fourteen?" The boy's father shook his head, "Eighteen?"
"No."
"Then why should Clark be any different? He's our son, even if neither of us have any biological ties to him."
"I'll go up and apologize."
"Good." Martha sighed. "He's seeing a therapist in Metropolis, but don't let him find out you know."
"I hope she can help him."
"Me too."
"I love him so much, Martha. I never wanted him to get hurt."
"I know; I feel the same way. But he did, and now all we can do is be there for him." "Do you think that's enough?'
"I don't know. But, it will have to be, for now."
Yeah, this is so not finished, and I have a lot of free time right now so I will probably have another chapter up for you very soon.
HELP! I need somebody, HELP! Not just anybody. You know I need someone, HELP! When I was younger, so much younger than today I never needed anybody's help in anyway but now I find Those days are gone and I'm not so self-assured. Now I find I've changed my mind I'd open up the door. ~~~The Beatles~~~
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------
"Lex had another break down a few years ago. None of the doctors could figure out what had caused it. He just kept on crying, and screaming and wetting his pants. Finally they did a cat scan of his head. There was a brain tumor the size of a lemon. Inoperable, they said, there was no way any doctor could remove it and Lex could live. So instead they put him through a year of radical chemotherapy every week. On the next test, the tumor was so small that the neurosurgeons decided that they could operate safely. Lex didn't want the surgery, he told me the night before he went under the knife.
"'I scared.' He said. The poor guy had reverted to a childlike stage his psychiatrist, a new one; we had to get a new one every other month because Lex has so many trust issues, said. Lex was a mess. He could barely function anymore. He couldn't work, but luckily Lionel hadn't frozen his trust fund. We had more money than we could ever spend, even with the medical bills. Lex could not dress, bathe, or feed himself any longer. He also needed to wear diapers.
"When we were both in the house and nobody else was around, he didn't mind too much. I never made him wear clothes; he hated them, except when it was really cold. Then I put him sweats. When we had to leave to go to the doctors, or my parents, I had to put Lex in jeans or something else that was appropriate. He fought me every time, and if he even had half the strength he used to, I would have given up. But Lex couldn't hurt a fly, literally.
"'It's okay baby,' I told him as we lay in the tiny hospital bed, Lex curled up in a ball between my knees and my chin. He was crying; I could feel the tears through my shirt, but that was nothing new. Lex cried a good 30-50% of the time. 'I'll be holding your hand the whole time, and we'll be able to talk to each other, okay?' Lex didn't respond. He pretty much stopped talking after that night. Once in a while he would make sobbing noises with his tears, and even more rarely he would scream in frustration when he soiled himself, even though the diapers made it easy to clean up.
"I know it's selfish, but I missed talking to him, a lot. Lex was always so brilliant, so kind, so sweet, so . . . Goddamn it. Why did this have to happen to him? He was in so much pain most of the time, but he doesn't talk. I was able to talk the doctor into giving us one of those morphine pumps to take home so that Lex could be comfortable. It wasn't too hard, what with all the money we've got. That's the only thing I will ever thank Lionel for. I know how to break the computer so that I could give Lex enough morphine so that he'd never be in pain again. I could make the monsters go away for ever. I could . . . but I can't I'm not a murder. I'm not like that. I think Lionel would do something like that, and maybe the old Lex too, but not me. I guess I'm just a big chicken.
"Nights were the worst for Lex. I think he was always afraid of the dark, but the first mental breakdown, the radical electroshock therapy, the pressure, the molestation during his early childhood by Lionel, the failed suicide attempt the year his mother died, the second breakdown which actually turned out to be a brain tumor, the chemo, the surgery, and everything else that's happened since, have made it so much worse.
"If it wasn't for me, Lex wouldn't eat anymore. I wake up every morning and I ask him if he is hungry. Once in a great while, I get a shrug. Otherwise, all that happens is that Lex stares into space. During chemo the only thing he could keep down was chocolate, so I would go to the grocery store and buy entire cartons of the stuff. You know what I mean, those huge crates which have 1000 boxes of chocolate bars in them. Lex would have a snickers bar for breakfast, hot chocolate in a bowl, we called it chocolate soup when he was still talking, for lunch, and M&Ms for dinner. Sometimes he'd eat ice cream with hot fudge, and about a million other types of candy bars. It's amazing he never got sick of it. I think he must have, but anything else was rejected by his stomach and so it was all I could do to keep him from starving to death.
"Eventually they put a catheter, that's a thing they use on people who go through as much chemo as Lex did because their veins don't work anymore. Basically it delivers the medicine, or in Lex's case, medicine and nutrition directly into the blood stream. Then he didn't have to eat anything else anymore. And it was a good thing too, because Lex basically started to refuse food. Sometimes I could get him to eat a little something but most days, weeks, maybe even months, forget it.
"Anyway, back to the morphine. Once, when he was still capable of talking, Lex told me that he hated the way the drugs made him feel.
''I almost think that the pain would be better, but I'm a wimp when it comes to stuff like that. I can't handle pain.'
'What the hell are you talking about? You're the strongest person I know. Think of all the hardships you've been through in life. And you survived.'
'Yeah, and I turned into this. I can't even control my bladder anymore, Clark. Fix the machine. Please? You don't have to do anything except program it so I can give myself enough morphine so that even you couldn't get me to the hospital fast enough.'
'No.'
'If you loved me you'd do it.'
"I felt like punching him as hard as I could. I knew that could probably kill him, one because of how strong I was and two because of how weak he had gotten."
'If you loved me, you wouldn't ask.'
'Alright, Clark, you win. Aww, ow fuck.'
'What's wrong?' "I ran over from where I had been sitting on a chair across the room, desperately trying to work on an article that needed to be finished, and getting nowhere. That was two weeks before I got fired from my job at the planet. Lex wasn't happy that it happened, but you could tell he was glad I was going to be around all of the time. 'Does it hurt Lex?' he nodded and so I fixed the machine so he could have more pain meds even though it was much too soon I could do it enough so he could be comfortable and not kill himself, I guess I'm just "lucky" in that way.
"After the surgery, Lex didn't stop talking completely, he just got really quiet. He rarely ate, and spent most of the day, when he wasn't looking at me with those eyes, those soft, sad, terror filled eyes, sleeping. That was one nice thing about the morphine. If someone could sit next to him, and press the button whenever it was available, Lex could sleep for days on end. And a lot of the time he did.
"When he wasn't sleeping, I'd read him warrior angel comics, and hold them so he could see the pictures. We watched movies and TV together, and sometimes I'd just lie in bed and hold him.
"I kept sending him to a psychiatrist, because I didn't know what to say when he said stuff about his father fucking him as a five-year-old, or what happened to him at boarding school, or the way Lionel beat the shit out of him for attempting suicide, I never knew what to say. Sometimes Lex would trust the shrink long enough to stop telling the person lies, and start opening up to him or her.
"But then his delusions would get in the way, and I'd have to fire them. Every single one of them felt bad for Lex, and they always told me so. They hoped I would find someone who could fix him, they said. But I knew they didn't care all that much about his well being. Lex had lost most of his cynicism along with the section of his brain they carved out, and it must have all gone to me. I started to believe that everyone who was 'helping' me and Lex were only after his money. Although, I was probably right to at least some degree.
"That was eight years ago. Less than two year since I had finished college, ten months I had been fired from the paper, and six months since Lex had said anything that a person above the age of six was capable of saying. He could no longer write anything more complicated than his name, and he sometimes got that wrong too. When he did write it, the signature looked like that of a child just learning how to write, one having an extremely difficult time.
"Lex knew that there was a lot wrong with him, and he would ask me about it. But I knew I couldn't explain it to him, since he wasn't capable of understanding. All I could do, was hold him, and kiss his head or cheeks, the only places he was capable of being touched without resorting to screaming and punching. Not that he could ever hurt me in his weakened physical condition, but I was worried that he would do harm to himself. After a while, I started to lie to him. I felt bad about it, but I knew it was better for him. I said he was sick but that he would get better very soon. I think in my heart I knew that wasn't true."
A loud wind-up alarm clock on Dr. Susan Leach's desk let out a long whinny buzz. She turned it off, and looked from her notepad; she had used up eight pages of it today, on the young-man's first session, to the boy himself. Clark Kent had been recommended to her for grief counseling after his significant other, Alexander Joseph, Luthor had died of Cancer. Today he had come in with fresh tears on his cheeks, and his hands shaking. She had told to make him comfortable.
Clark had spent twenty minutes trying. He gave up finally saying, 'fuck it.' And he lay down on the sofa. He spent the rest of the session there, staring up at the sealing, occasionally looking at Susan to see if she was paying attention to him. Clark got chocked up several times during his session, and at one point had vomited into a waist basket near him. Another thing she noticed was the way Clark referred to Lex in the present tense even though he has been dead for almost a year.
Susan wanted very much to help the young man. She knew, however, that he was for the most part beyond help. There were some psychiatric drugs that would take his mind off things, level out his emotions, and more therapy would eventually help him to realize that Lex Luthor's death had not been his fault. Also, more sessions would help him understand that he had done more than anybody else ever would have. He must have amazing patience, she thought to herself.
"Can I leave now?" Clark asked He stood up and walked towards the door.
"I'm going to give you a prescription for Paxill. It's an antidepressant. Unlike most drugs of its type, though, it starts working right away. Most antidepressants take almost two months to completely take effect, and the first two weeks of treatment under them is agony. I'm going to write you a script for thirty milligram tablets. Take one a day, about an hour before you go to bed. I'm going to schedule for an appointment a week from today at the same time is that okay?" Clark nodded. He was silent for a moment, and then opened his mouth. It took almost ten minutes to get out the next sentence.
"I don't sleep much."
"These will help you with that too."
"Whatever," Clark took the script from the woman, and walked out of the office. He took the elevator to the bottom floor, and walked out of the building. Once outside he tossed the sheet of paper into a trashcan. He walked to the bus stop, road it to the most rural part of Metropolis he could find, and got off. After checking to see that nobody was around, he ran home, to Smallville at almost one hundred miles an hour. He knocked on the door of the decrepit looking farm house. Martha Kent answered. She barely recognized the man who was standing on her doorstep, but knew immediately that he was her son.
She enveloped him in a hug, and held him for what seemed like a long time to both of them. When Jonathan came into the house later that evening, he took one look at his son, and mumbled something. Clark who was sitting at the table with his head buried in his arms, looked up with tear stained cheeks.
"What did you say?"
"I said, I told you not to get involved with Lex Luthor, when you were fourteen, but you didn't listen, did you." Clark ran towards his father at full speed and was barely able to stop himself before causing serious damage. Clark's body stopped inches away from Jonathan's, any closer and the older man surely would have died. His father stared at him for a minute and said nothing. Then the boy turned around and started walking to his room. Once he was out of what Martha considered to be ear short, she slapped her husband on the shoulder.
"How could you say that to him? Can't you see how much pain he is in?"
"And he wouldn't be, if he had just stayed away from Lex."
"Did you ever do anything your father told you to do when you were fourteen?" The boy's father shook his head, "Eighteen?"
"No."
"Then why should Clark be any different? He's our son, even if neither of us have any biological ties to him."
"I'll go up and apologize."
"Good." Martha sighed. "He's seeing a therapist in Metropolis, but don't let him find out you know."
"I hope she can help him."
"Me too."
"I love him so much, Martha. I never wanted him to get hurt."
"I know; I feel the same way. But he did, and now all we can do is be there for him." "Do you think that's enough?'
"I don't know. But, it will have to be, for now."
Yeah, this is so not finished, and I have a lot of free time right now so I will probably have another chapter up for you very soon.