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Clark was still draped over the fence, still holding the tops of a couple of the boards but no longer applying pressure. His back ached, his knees were shaking, his chest was heaving, his stomach felt unsteady, and no matter how hard he tried he just could not stop crying. He was embarrassed but not angry; his shock had overridden pretty much everything else except the pain and the realization that he alone was responsible for his predicament. He had defiled the trust of every person who mattered to him, had given away his sense of self-respect to a piece of cheap metal and unnatural rock, had allowed a disembodied voice to define who and what he was, and for all this, he had been stripped not only of his powers, but of the confidence the ring lent him, of the freedom he had coveted, and of his pride. Now he didn't know how to fix it or even if he could; he knew that his parents cared about him, but right now he didn't understand how anyone could love him, let alone forgive him. Jonathan's determination and discipline had broken Clark's arrogance and will, but Clark had broken himself.
Jonathan gave Clark a minute to cool down and just breathe; then he approached his son slowly. When he pulled up beside the teenager, he gently laid his left hand flat on Clark's back, over his spine and just below his shoulder blades; the boy didn't seem to know that his father was there. Jonathan leaned forward until he could see part of his son's face, and his heart wrenched as he saw the tears and recognized the shamed look in the downcast eyes--the look of a little boy who was lost.
Jonathan didn't have all the answers, he didn't have a magic wand to wave to make everything better, but he was certain of one thing--Clark needed to understand that, wherever he might go and however lost he might become, his father would always find him and he would always bring him home.
Clark wasn't aware of his dad until Jonathan spoke softly. "Clark?" The boy jumped, startled, and his heart skipped a beat. Jonathan's eyes tightened apologetically, but he kept his hand on Clark's back and leaned just a little closer. "Clark, son? Can you look at me?" Jon's voice was soft and low, his words slow and gentle. He was a little surprised when, after a moment, his son slowly shook his head and lowered his face even more. Jonathan sighed sadly, looked over his shoulder at Martha, thought for a moment, then nodded slightly to himself as he came to a resolution. He stepped closer to the teenager, reaching out and using the fingertips of his right hand to gingerly turn the young face toward him; he noticed, with a pang, the pale skin and tear stains and the blood on his son's lower lip. Jonathan released the trembling chin and moved carefully, sliding his left hand to Clark's left side, just under his arm, and putting his right hand under his son's right arm. He gently coaxed the boy to a standing position by using his new strength to slowly pull Clark's torso upright and murmuring constant encouragement; when Clark was more or less upright, Jon positioned himself so that Clark's right arm rested across Jon's shoulder and Jon's left arm cradled Clark's back and left side. "Come on, big guy, let's get you inside; we'll make sure you're okay, and your mom can get some food into you." Clark blushed slightly at his father's whisper, feeling a warm, bruising blade of pain in his core because it actually hurt to hear loving words through his haze of shame.
They walked slowly, side by side, with Clark slumped and shaking is his father's grasp. Jonathan could feel his son's insecurity as surely as he could feel Clark's weight in his arms, and with every step he silently swore again an oath to restore his son's assurance in their family and in his own worth. Jor-El had told Clark that he was a god among men, but even in death Jor-El suffered from a bad case of hubris. The Kryptonian didn't know God, he didn't know mankind, and he didn't know Jonathan Kent's son. The farmer might only be human, but he was a real man and a real father, and he knew that in his arms he held the seed, nearly ready for harvest, of a great man worthy of any price.
Clark was still draped over the fence, still holding the tops of a couple of the boards but no longer applying pressure. His back ached, his knees were shaking, his chest was heaving, his stomach felt unsteady, and no matter how hard he tried he just could not stop crying. He was embarrassed but not angry; his shock had overridden pretty much everything else except the pain and the realization that he alone was responsible for his predicament. He had defiled the trust of every person who mattered to him, had given away his sense of self-respect to a piece of cheap metal and unnatural rock, had allowed a disembodied voice to define who and what he was, and for all this, he had been stripped not only of his powers, but of the confidence the ring lent him, of the freedom he had coveted, and of his pride. Now he didn't know how to fix it or even if he could; he knew that his parents cared about him, but right now he didn't understand how anyone could love him, let alone forgive him. Jonathan's determination and discipline had broken Clark's arrogance and will, but Clark had broken himself.
Jonathan gave Clark a minute to cool down and just breathe; then he approached his son slowly. When he pulled up beside the teenager, he gently laid his left hand flat on Clark's back, over his spine and just below his shoulder blades; the boy didn't seem to know that his father was there. Jonathan leaned forward until he could see part of his son's face, and his heart wrenched as he saw the tears and recognized the shamed look in the downcast eyes--the look of a little boy who was lost.
Jonathan didn't have all the answers, he didn't have a magic wand to wave to make everything better, but he was certain of one thing--Clark needed to understand that, wherever he might go and however lost he might become, his father would always find him and he would always bring him home.
Clark wasn't aware of his dad until Jonathan spoke softly. "Clark?" The boy jumped, startled, and his heart skipped a beat. Jonathan's eyes tightened apologetically, but he kept his hand on Clark's back and leaned just a little closer. "Clark, son? Can you look at me?" Jon's voice was soft and low, his words slow and gentle. He was a little surprised when, after a moment, his son slowly shook his head and lowered his face even more. Jonathan sighed sadly, looked over his shoulder at Martha, thought for a moment, then nodded slightly to himself as he came to a resolution. He stepped closer to the teenager, reaching out and using the fingertips of his right hand to gingerly turn the young face toward him; he noticed, with a pang, the pale skin and tear stains and the blood on his son's lower lip. Jonathan released the trembling chin and moved carefully, sliding his left hand to Clark's left side, just under his arm, and putting his right hand under his son's right arm. He gently coaxed the boy to a standing position by using his new strength to slowly pull Clark's torso upright and murmuring constant encouragement; when Clark was more or less upright, Jon positioned himself so that Clark's right arm rested across Jon's shoulder and Jon's left arm cradled Clark's back and left side. "Come on, big guy, let's get you inside; we'll make sure you're okay, and your mom can get some food into you." Clark blushed slightly at his father's whisper, feeling a warm, bruising blade of pain in his core because it actually hurt to hear loving words through his haze of shame.
They walked slowly, side by side, with Clark slumped and shaking is his father's grasp. Jonathan could feel his son's insecurity as surely as he could feel Clark's weight in his arms, and with every step he silently swore again an oath to restore his son's assurance in their family and in his own worth. Jor-El had told Clark that he was a god among men, but even in death Jor-El suffered from a bad case of hubris. The Kryptonian didn't know God, he didn't know mankind, and he didn't know Jonathan Kent's son. The farmer might only be human, but he was a real man and a real father, and he knew that in his arms he held the seed, nearly ready for harvest, of a great man worthy of any price.
