"But, son," he said, dropping halfway into a crouch, hovering just above his son's eye level and placing his hands on the edges of the wooden seat, bracketing the shrinking teenager, "what hurts us more than anything about all of this is that you chose to give up your power--not over matter and gravity and motion, but over your own life, your own path--to a disembodied voice of someone you have never known, and when you made that choice you condemned us to witness it. You consigned us to spend more than three months basically blindfolded and bound, able to hear you calling for help but unable to see you and with no way to get to where you were. Thinking about the things that could have been happening to you, things far more twisted than even a normal kid might face, was worse than dying." He leaned in a little closer, so that he filled his son's vision, taking advantage of being bigger and stronger. "Maybe you think that's what happened to you; maybe you want to believe that you felt that way when Jor-El told you that you had to give yourself over to him to save us, but let me tell you something, kid--you think you hurt now? You think you feel powerless now? You have no idea what powerless feels like until someone you love more than all the worlds is in pain and in danger and you can't make it stop!" Clark blinked at the low-riding force that separated those last three words and made their impact as effective as jabs. Riding that wave, Jonathan drove home the rest of the point. "It leads me to wonder, son, if you'd really ever considered the fact that your choices have consequences for not just you, but everyone around you. It hurts us, it infuriates us, it scares us to realize just how easily you allowed that voice to convince you that we could betray everything we've ever taught you, everything we are, and just stop loving you and being your parents. That says to me that either we have somehow failed so completely as parents that we have damaged you far more than Jor-El could ever hope to, or you have spent your entire life laughing at everything this family stands for."

Clark could no longer meet his father's gaze but was shaking his head vigorously, sobbing quietly but hard, whispering hoarsely that that wasn't true. Face downturned, he felt rather than saw his father rise and look down at him from above.

"I want to believe you, son, I really do," Jonathan's ragged voice filtered through Clark's hitched breath and the roaring in his ears. "And maybe that makes me a cosmic fool, but I can deal with that because I'm not about to give up on you--I still believe in you, Clark. We still believe in you. Now, I promised you that we would get through this, and we will, but it's not going to be easy. Since you're obviously so eager to put your life and your destiny into someone else's hands, your mother and I will be taking them back and keeping them for you for awhile longer; and we're sorry that it has to hurt so much--we hope you know that we would never have chosen this pain for you--but this isn't the end of it. There are still consequences that have to be dealt with, both here and outside these doors."

He reached down and touched his son's chin. "Look at me, please, Clark, I need to know that you are hearing me." The boy slowly looked up at his father through swollen eyes. "Good." Jonathan kept his tone as steady and solid as he could. "This home has always been a place of safety, and that will not change. That means that for the time being, life around here is going to be very predictable--you will go to school, and you will know that we are expecting nothing less than your best there. You will come directly home, take care of your chores, do your homework, eat with us, do whatever extra work we find for you--and there will be extra work--and go to bed when you're told. You will not leave the yard without our express permission. You will not have visitors without our permission. You will not whine, you will not make excuses, you will not try to bargain with us. You will be expected to be on time to all of your classes, to chores, to meals, and with assignments. You will do what you're asked to do. You will sleep in your room, you will do your homework in the kitchen, and you will stay out of the loft. These rules may change in time, but when they do, it will be because your mother and I agree that you're ready to handle it. There are consequences for your actions, Clark--if you follow the rules, the consequences will be worth the work. If you defy or disrespect us, the consequences will involve less freedom and more pain." The farmer saw his son wince at this pointed reference. "Yes, that's right, son, tonight does not have to be a one-hit wonder. You have more to deal with in the morning, and after that, your behavior will determine whether or not you find yourself in that position again. We'll also talk tomorrow about work you can do to pay down the damages you caused." Then, maintaining eye contact, he leaned down a bit closer to the boy. "I can't speak for anyone else, but you can believe me when I tell you that here you will be forgiven, here you will be claimed, wanted, needed, and when you stand you will not stand alone. Your choices brought you to this; because we love you and want more for you, because you are a boy and still need help like any other boy, we're not giving you a choice about the way things will be for now. But, son, we are offering you something more than that--we're offering you the opportunity to take this time to decide what kind of man you want to be when it comes time for you to take the controls again and fly your own course."

For a few moments, silence reigned again, broken only by the ticking of the clock, the soft, hitching sobs of the fledgling, and the roaring in all of their ears. Then, so softly that even Jonathan wasn't sure he heard it at first, Clark started to whisper apologies over and over again. He was starting to rock a bit in his chair, his head hung as low as he could get it, his hands hiding his face. Jonathan tore his gaze away from his son to look back at Martha, who was weeping silently; she reached out for his hand, and when they touched, he could feel her strength, the anchor for the anchor. They shared a look and a squeeze of the hand, and then he turned back to their son and to the knowledge that it was time--the wound had been opened, drained, cleaned, and medicated, and now it was time for the protection of a bandage.

Jonathan dropped down into a crouch, nearly eye-level now with the slumped teenager, and finally let his basic nature take over. He reached up, gently tugged the boy's hands down and away from his face, and gathered his son in his arms, enfolding the trembling youth and cradling the dark head. He tucked the teen's face into the hollow at the front of his shoulder, feeling the hot fluid of tears soaking into his shirt. He tried for a moment to keep the embrace gentle, but soon found his arms wrapping tighter and tighter around the boy, as if he just could not get enough of his child into his arms at once. Jonathan forced himself to get a grip on the impulse before his son could find it difficult to breathe, but only barely, and as he buried his own face in his son's shoulder and then in his hair just behind the young ear, the farmer let a few of his own tears of relief seep through.

Never had Clark felt so… held as he did at that moment. His position on his father's shoulder was not natural for him, but at that moment he could not even think of shifting; it was surprisingly comforting, having that strength of bone and muscle shielding him while his aching eyes were sheltered in that bit of softness. He certainly felt like a small child, being cradled and even cuddled, but he couldn't fight against the feeling of smallness, and in that moment when he felt his father's tears and felt his father's hand go to work rubbing his back while the other arm continued to hold him securely, he realized that Jonathan Kent was doing something that Jor-El could never do--he was showing that he had the courage to be vulnerable and still be a fortress.

Minutes that felt like seconds passed before Jonathan gently, reluctantly pulled back and helped his son to sit up in the chair and then turned him again to the table. He murmured to him to eat a few more bites and drink his water, and then the farmer turned to his wife, who looked as though she'd never been more proud of him. They embraced and then kissed, a soft, sweet kiss made of relief. After a few moments of silent contact, they parted and Jonathan began clearing the counters as he knew his wife preferred each night. It wasn't long, though, before a soft noise from her caught his attention, and he turned to her and then followed her twitching lips and tilting gaze.

Clark Kent, superteen, boy of steel, kid who could leap tall buildings in a single bound as long as no one expected him to hit his targeted landing point, had nodded off over his cold casserole, fork halfway through cutting his next bite. The parents smiled at one another, and Jonathan sent up a quick thanks that he still had his borrowed strength as he gingerly pulled out the dining chair, slipped his arms into place, and stood up cradling his sleeping son as he had years ago. With a wink for Martha, Jonathan carried their boy out of the kitchen and up to be tucked into bed, just as it had been in the beginning, when Jonathan had been a hero and Clark had wanted to be just like his father.

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