Jonathan carefully moved his fingers over his son's head. The black hair was so matted and dirty that he was meticulous about finding bits of glass and anything else that might harm his son. He didn't know how long Clark's vulnerability would last, or what else to expect in the withdrawal from the drug effects of the red kryptonite, but he intended to be prepared to handle whatever came--Clark would have to face and suffer some consequences for his choices, but he wouldn't be doing it alone.
As glass plinked onto the thin towel on the floor, Jonathan began to speak in low, even tones, his words slow and clear. He needed Clark to hear and understand every word, to feel the Kents' emotions and grasp the fact that the power to tear metal or see through walls or rule the world could not compare to the sheer force of a parent's devotion.
"We have a lot to talk about, Clark, more than we can deal with in one night, but first I have something to say to you, because before you can face the reality of your choices, I need to face the reality of mine."
He took a deep, slightly trembling breath, fighting to keep a grip on his emotions and his tone as he opened his own wound and let it bleed a little. "Clark, I need you to know that I'm deeply sorry for the mistakes I made the day of the explosion. I've spent the past three months praying for the chance to apologize to you, to take responsibility for the role I played in your decision to run. It was still your choice, and it was still wrong, but I won't pretend that I had nothing to do with it.
"You see, I've had three months to think about this, to think about how I failed you when you needed me most, to be disgusted and furious with myself and to be willing to give anything to be able to look you in the eyes and tell you how very much I wish I could take back what I said to you that day, or rather, what I didn't say." He stopped his glass inspection, laid the comb on the table, stepped around to Clark's side, and turned his son's chin so that the teenager was looking directly up at him. He looked deep into the bloodshot eyes that had haunted his dreams all summer, took a deep breath, and fully opened his own wound.
"Anger is a two-edged sword, son; one edge—anger born of fear--can be used as a weapon, to draw blood, to exact retribution; and the other edge—anger born of love--can be used as a tool, to lend the energy to get through the battles that are worth fighting. I used the wrong edge—I let my fear and grief color my choices. And then the other edge came back to slice into me.
"Son, that day I was traumatized--we all were--and I was trying so hard to hold it together for me and for your mother, and, I thought, for you. When I woke, I thought it was going to be such a good day, but by dinnertime I'd lost one child and nearly lost my wife, and by the time the day was over, I'd lost my other child, partially because I let anger and fear guide me instead of trusting my instincts--and to be honest, I shouldn't have trusted you. I know that sounds harsh, and I'm sorry, but it didn't take me long to figure out that if I hadn't taken you at your word when you lied about not hearing the voice anymore, if I had trusted my instincts saying that you were lying to me, if I had just stayed and pushed, I might have gotten something out of you, might have prevented the pain and grief. My trust in you could be rebuilt with time and work; I'm afraid your faith in me might be totally destroyed.
"And then there was what happened at the hospital; you'd been in a serious explosion, and I didn't bother to ask if you were okay, just let my eyes tell me you weren't bleeding so you must be unscathed. I'm your father; I, of all people, should have remembered that you carry all of your scars inside. But I didn't push, I didn't even reach out and touch you because I didn't trust myself. I was trying so hard to control my tongue and not say some of the things that crossed my mind, because whether they were true or not, they would have served no purpose but to strike back at you for being an impulsive teenager, and that wouldn't have given me any satisfaction; I almost told you, among other things, to grow up and start acting like a man, but the fact is that you're not a man. You don't have to be a man yet--on your way, yes, but not there yet. You're a boy, a kid, and I had to remind myself that you're still learning. The problem was, I should have reminded you of that.
"See, I said so very little because I wasn't willing to say anything that would make the situation worse, to say something we would both regret later. I was trying so hard not to hurt you, not to destroy you, but by not telling you what you needed to hear, I defeated myself, and when it all came down to it, at the moment of truth, I loved you and wanted you but at the same time I wanted to lash out. What I did say was all true and justified, but what's true and justified is not always helpful or appropriate. I was grieving for the baby and for your mother and myself, and in a way I was grieving for you, but I didn't tell you that. I didn't tell you anything you hadn't already figured out for yourself. I had one good chance to speak to you, to connect with you, and I blew it because I was thinking with the part of my brain that's keyed to my own feelings, rather than the part of me that's keyed to you. In that place, in that moment, with your mother injured and part of our family lost, I needed to have been your father, not your accuser, but I fell short."
Jonathan briefly closed his eyes in his own pain and shame, then opened them and resolutely followed through on his commitment. "I thought at the time that I was acting in your best interests, that I was even being gracious because I know that a lot of guys would have gone ballistic, would have yelled and screamed and maybe even verbally disowned their sons, but I know now that I was really just being incredibly selfish, trying to defend my own pain and grief and anger and be some sort of twisted martyr by sparing you.
"I was grieving and I was furious with you and even more so with Jor-El, and I was afraid to tell you that because I thought you might shut down on me and then we'd never get to where I thought we needed to be--you fully feeling what your actions had reaped and us being merciful and granting you grace. But that's not what grace is, and frankly I think if I'd just told you all of that, you might have stayed to fight it out, and I might have been able to save both of us. I realized the next day that in the end, if I'd been more thoughtful, just a bit more compassionate, I might have somehow made you feel it was worth it to stay and try to work through what had happened. But like I said, I was being selfish--in just that last moment, I wanted you to feel some of the pain I was feeling, like that could make up for what we were going through; right then, I didn't want to think about you and what you needed and how you were going to get through this."
Jonathan crouched beside his son, making himself level with the boy. "Clark, please understand that I have hated myself every minute since you left for being human, for not putting aside my own anger to take care of you," he reached up and brushed a lock of dark hair from the pale forehead, "for not being the incredible kind of man I know you will be soon. I love you so much, son, so much that it frightens me sometimes, and I hurt for you and for what I didn't do for you; it literally kills me, I die inside to think that you left here and spent three months feeling like I'd rejected you. You are my son, Clark Jerome Kent, and nothing you or I or anyone else says or does can ever change that. No one has that power."
He tilted his head and just gazed at his son for a moment, at the swollen eyes bright with fresh tears, and then he straightened his head and spoke at barely more than a whisper, cradling Clark's chin on the crook of his index finger. "I'm sorry, son. I am so deeply sorry. I've hurt you, I've scarred you, and all the duct tape and band-aids and ice cream in the world can't fix this. You're my son and I still have ultimate authority over you, but this is one thing I can't demand; Clark, no one can force you to do this, but I would be truly grateful if you'd decide to try to forgive me and let me try to build back your faith in me. Can you think about that for me?"
Clark was looking at his father with surprise and no small amount of trepidation, but he knew deep within himself that because Jonathan Kent had a lot of integrity, he would not have bared his heart and soul like that unless he meant every word. Clark remembered the anger and resentment, and most of all, the gnawing hurt of his father's rejection, but he'd never expected Jon to acknowledge it and apologize for it. Clark had never expected to speak to his father again, for that matter, so to be sitting here, at home, feeling a physical pain he'd never anticipated and an emotional agony he wasn't sure he could process, was incredible--and if he was totally honest with himself, even despite the pain there was nowhere else in the world he'd rather be. The problem was that he had no place here; he was an alien, a force of destruction toward the people he most wanted to protect, unworthy of any of this. He didn't understand why his parents, his heroes were treating him as though he belonged there with them, but he didn't have the strength now to argue, to tell them they were wrong and that they should forget that he existed. He couldn't even manage to tell them that he recognized that Jonathan was taking too much of the blame, that even if Jon had been more supportive, Clark might still have felt obligated to leave in order to protect those he loved. For the moment, he was helpless--exhausted, drained beyond words, in a state of total surrender, transfixed by the love and determination in those blue eyes, and he found that he could only nod, willing his father to accept absolution.
Jonathan saw the offering in his son's eyes, not that Clark would think about forgiving him but that he had forgiven him, instantly and unconditionally, and Jonathan closed his own eyes to contain the sheer force of his pride and affection for his son. As so many of his feelings seemed to be doing tonight, the rush of emotion washed over him, filling his eyes and throat and chest and threatening to rattle him apart at the seams. Crouched there, with his eyes closed in what was very close to a prayer of humility and a request for inner strength greater than his newly acquired outer power, Jonathan edged his tongue between his upper and lower teeth and exhaled slowly. After a moment he slowly opened his eyes to meet Clark's again; he gazed at his son's pale, sad face and just as he guiltily registered that they needed to see to Clark's injured lip, he felt a slight pressure against the front of his shoulder. He reached up and found his wife nestling something into the palm of his hand. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that it was a clean, soft washcloth wrapped around a homemade ice pack. He turned his head to nod up at her, smiling in a kind of gratitude that can only be shared between entwined souls, and she smiled back tremulously, also handing him another washcloth that she'd lovingly soaked in warm water. He'd been so absorbed in their son that he'd tuned out her movements, but here she was, as always one step ahead of him, more than simply a helpmeet—she was his balance.
Martha gazed mistily at the scene before her, of her precious son home and intact, of her powerful husband lowering himself to eye-level so that he could care for their child. She'd been keeping herself in the background for a reason—even though she had been hurt and scared by her son's actions and by Jor-El's lack of respect for life, most of Clark's actions had been designed to hurt himself and his father. She knew that she would get her chance alone with her son later, but for right now, she was content to see to the details while Jonathan addressed the bigger issues. She knew that she was not a fixture in either of their minds, that they loved and needed her, and that right now she was doing the best for both of them by stepping back. She was giving them no choice but to face each other and themselves and to learn that they would survive the experience.
So she busied herself fixing a plate of leftovers for her son, heating the casserole in the microwave and adding some buttered cornbread and a tall glass of warm milk to help him relax. She knew she should be giving him water to replenish his system, but she was going on instinct here, and instinct told her that the calmer Clark became in his own skin, the easier it would be for him to recover. It took her a few minutes to register, through the numbing haze of relief, that Clark's lower lip was open and needed tending. Jonathan was at the perfect level to see to the injury, and Clark needed to be reminded that the hands that occasionally delivered pain usually offered comfort and security. It disconcerted her that her son's body wasn't repairing itself, but with an effort she quieted her thoughts, recalling that the boy had been almost constantly in a drugged state for three months and then had had the instrument of abuse suddenly removed—it wasn't fair to expect him to be all sorted out so soon. He needed her support, her love, and her commitment, and she would give them, tenderly and firmly, with everything she had.
Jonathan saw all of this in Martha's eyes as she handed him the ice pack and the warm cloth. He turned back to Clark and sucked in a breath; Clark was so pale that the blood stood out, a true garnet shade startling in its intensity, against the pallor of his skin. He had stopped crying a few moments ago, but for some reason Jon was sure that the flood wasn't over yet.
He folded the warm cloth over his fingers, creating a kind of pad of softness, and raised it to dab at the cut on Clark's lip. Out of pain and self-preservation reflex, Clark pulled his head back, but Jonathan just sighed and put his left hand behind Clark's head, gently holding it in place. "I know it's painful, son, but you're going to have to let me take care of it; the more you fight it, the more it'll hurt." As Clark squeezed his eyes shut and surrendered with a pained expression, Jonathan dabbed at the cut and thought about how his son's split lip correlated to the bigger issues here. All the farmer really wanted to do was to take his son in his arms and never…let…go; but he knew that they needed to work through some things and come to an understanding about exactly what had happened and what they could each expect from now on. With every breath he hated more the conviction that the affection and reassurance and tenderness would have to wait until the hard part of this reunion was finished and all of them were back in synch. In order for his son—and his family—to heal, the wound caused by Clark's actions would have to be opened and cleaned and treated.
-----