Author's Note: Jeez, another long delay... Actually, I thought it was ready last week, but I didn't post it for some reason. Then today I revamped the ending, and I think it turned out stronger this way, so hopefully the wait was worth it. Thanks for bearing with me, guys. You rock.

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Chapter Eleven: Alternative

Clark hated the high school building, but at least it was better by night: no noise, no commotion, no need to fend off attacks, and no reason to constantly stand on guard... except for the figure of the short boy who was walking three steps ahead of him, shrouded in shadows and mystery.

Clark Keller had been around long enough to know the rules of the universe. When you're down, you get kicked. When you show weakness, you get broken. When you trust, you get stabbed in the back. Life is nothing but a cold-hearted market, and everything -- and everyone -- has a price.

So what was Matthew Kent getting out of this situation? Either he was gaining something Clark couldn't see, or worse, he simply wasn't playing by the rules, which made him unpredictable and dangerous. Either way, Clark resolved to keep his guards up.

"Why are we going this way?" he asked Matt.

"Hmm?" Matt stopped and turned. "Oh, I forgot to tell you. The front doors are locked."

As if that's a problem. Clark stopped himself from rolling his eyes. "Are you sure?" he asked instead.

A shadow flitted over Matt's face, but he shook it off. "Yeah, I'm sure."

Hiding something, aren't we?

Clark turned away and backtracked to the office they'd just left. Bailey's office. He trailed a fond hand over its door as he passed it by, heading for the front doors. After a moment, he heard Matt jogging to catch up.

"I'm telling you they're locked," the boy grumbled on his left.

Clark shrugged. "Worth a second check. What're you doing here, anyway?"

"I forgot my backpack."

Clark hoisted his own backpack higher on his shoulder. The backpack which Matt had returned to him earlier that day. Sort of. He didn't want to think about it. "Man, you're pathetic. All that noise over a backpack?"

Beside him, Matt hesitated. "I ran into someone here," he said finally.

Clark quirked an eyebrow, though Matt was looking straight ahead. "Who?"

"I don't know. I didn't really see him." He shuddered, or so it seemed to Clark. "It was weird stuff -- the lights kept blinking on and off..."

Clark pretended to listen, but used the time to scan through the school. It was a difficult, delicate work, peeling layer after layer of reality, looking through walls and desks in search of the metal parts in a backpack. Luckily, it wasn't far away.

"... and then he ran out the front doors," Matt finished his tale.

"Did you try the Torch?" Clark said.

"I told you, I followed him away from the Torch."

They reached the front doors, and Matt shook them. They remained shut. "See?"

This time, Clark allowed himself to roll his eyes. "Your backpack," he said. "In the Torch. Did you try there?"

"Oh." Matt glanced into the other corridor and shuddered. "No, I don't think it's there."

Clark smirked. "Scared of the dark?"

He caught a glimpse of hurt and anger on Matt's face before the boy straightened up. "Fine, I'll go check."

Clark waited until after Matt had rounded the corner. Then he laid his hands against the doors and began applying pressure. The doors creaked. The lock mechanism screamed like a tortured soul, and then, suddenly, the doors gave in and parted before him. Clark smiled to himself. His smile widened when Matt came running back, his bag bouncing wildly on his shoulder.

"What was that?" Matt called.

"I guess the doors weren't as locked as you thought," Clark said lightly.

Matt shook his head. "Damn, I could have sworn... How'd you know my bag was in the Torch?"

"I -- Well --" Good question. "I saw you coming out with my bag, earlier. When... you know." They both knew. Clark felt an unexpected pang of shame. "Anyway, I figured yours was still inside."

"Sharp memory," Matt said softly. But Clark caught his doubtful sideways glance.

It took an eternity of hitchhiking and walking to reach the Kents' farm, and a black night had stamped down the land by the time the two boys clambered onto the porch.

"This is it," Matt said as he unlocked the door. He pushed through, dropped his bag, and stretched. "Mom? Dad?"

Just like that. No sneaking in, no carefully scanning the rooms, no tension or fear; just a boy coming home. Clark found himself stuck on the porch, twisting in jealousy's paws and furiously blinking back tears.

"They're still in Metropolis," Matt was saying. He turned and frowned at Clark's hesitation. "Aren't you coming in?"

Clark pulled himself together and entered the Kents' residence. His nerves were like over-taut strings, on which tension was thrumming its battle-song. He'd never felt as out-of-place as he felt in that quiet, peaceful house. He almost expected Matt's father to jump out of the shadows, brandishing a meteor rock and demanding that Clark left.

"Come on, I'll fix us something to eat," Matt said.

Clark's stomach grumbled in reply.

The Kents' fridge was stuffed full of food. Clark, sitting on the edge of a kitchen chair, eyed it greedily, while Matt took out some dishes and a bottle of orange juice. It took so long for their dinner to heat up that Clark would have rather eaten it cold.

I wonder if my stare would work faster than the oven.

The thought plunged Clark back into miserable reality. What he'd done to his old man was monstrous enough, but the Kents had done nothing to him. He had no right to endanger their son and house with his presence. He should leave at once. He should never have come.

The smell of home-cooked food rolled heavily on the air.

Clark stood up abruptly, just as Matt announced, "Ready!"

A confused moment, during which Clark kept his eyes on the floor.

Matt broke the silence. "You, uh, wanna wash your hands or something?"

"I have to go," Clark said. It came out softer than a whisper, even though he'd used all his strength to move the words past his lips.

The whisper was lost in the clatter of dishes as Matt set the table. "What was that?" He waved a hand in the direction of the kitchen sink. "There's soap in the blue jar."

Clark closed his eyes. Surely, if he was careful... Just this one dinner... It wasn't like he had anywhere else to go.

He washed his hands carefully, mesmerized by the small dark snakes that flowed from his skin, where he'd wiped the blood from his knees and the back of his head. Both injuries were gone. His old man, he bet, was still feeling his arm -- those chunks of charred flesh and bubbling skin -- Clark doubled over the sink and tried not to throw up. The water flowed coolly down his face.

He returned to his chair at the kitchen table, sitting opposite of Matt and being careful not to even glance at him. He stared intently at his plate, and the sight of it was enough to restore his appetite. Clark tucked in. Dinner was some kind of meat, with a side dish of potatoes -- he didn't register the details, only that it was hot and good, and definitely not cafeteria food. It was all he could do not eat at super-speed. He reached for his orange juice and drained it in two long gulps. When he lowered the glass, he glimpsed a faint smile on Matt's face.

"Easy," Matt said. "No one's taking your plate away."

Clark ducked his head and continued eating. Even though he slowed down, by the time he'd cleared the plate, Matt was only halfway through his. Clark put down his fork in a mixture of relief and regret.

"Let me get you some more," Matt said.

Clark felt as if he should say something, but he wasn't sure what. He wasn't so good at this guest thing. Probably whatever he'd say would be the wrong thing.

They didn't exchange another word, not when Matt finished eating, not when Clark finished his second plate, and not when Matt brought him a third helping and watched him work his way through it.

Finally, Clark pushed away the empty plate and slumped back in his chair. Sated. Warm. Content. Not feelings he was used to. He cherished the moment, and at the same time, felt angry with himself for the indulgence. There was always a price to pay for these things.

Matt cleared his throat. "So, uh... Do you wanna talk?"

Clark let a long moment of silence answer for him.

"Okay," Matt said finally. "No problem. Listen, it's getting late..."

"Right." Clark picked up his bag and pushed himself to his feet, suddenly eager to leave. Matt was probably regretting ever inviting him. "I'm going."

"Where to?"

The question caught him off guard, and he shot Matt a surprised look. Those golden-brown eyes were studying him intently over the kitchen table.

Clark tried to shrug casually. "Some place," he said. Back to school, maybe. "Doesn't really matter."

Another moment of awkward silence followed. Say 'thank you for dinner', Clark commanded himself. Come on, just say it. But thanking Matt would be admitting that Clark owed him one, or worse, that Clark had needed the help. Only the weak need help.

"Good night," Clark said briskly, just as Matt said, "You can sleep on the sofa."

"I -- what?" Clark stumbled in his words, trying to regain his bearings.

Matt smiled -- almost apologetically, of all things. "It's not the most comfortable arrangement," he said. "But it beats the gym, or Bailey's office."

As if you'd know. Clark bit back the retort and shouldered his bag. He had finally figured it out. "Look, Matt, you don't have to do this, okay? You've done your good thing for today. You get full brownie points, or whatever, so lay off." He managed to pull off a sneer. "Stop wearing those stupid plaid shirts, and I might even stop beating you up. That good enough for you?"

But Matt was rolling his eyes. "You're impossible, you know that?"

Oh, yeah. More than you'll ever know.

"Can't you just --" Matt seemed to swallow the rest of the sentence. He shook his head. "Look, I owe you one. I'd probably still be stuck in school if it weren't for you. So just do me a favor, okay?"

Clark regarded Matt for a long moment, trying to figure him out. He didn't buy that 'I owe you' stuff for a second. It was frustrating. Why was Matt doing this? Despite himself, Clark glanced back into the living room. Not a comfortable arrangement, right. The couch looked like the sleeping place of kings.

"I'll go get you some blankets," Matt said firmly.

Clark's head snapped back. "Didn't say I was staying."

But Matt had already taken off to the upper floor.

Clark sighed, wandered into the living room, and stood there, unsure what to do. Strange house. Crazy people. God, he was tired. Tired of trying to understand, tired of standing on guard, tired of being strong. Let the world kick him when he was down, if it meant a decent night's sleep. He dropped his bag next to the sofa.

Matt came back down, carrying an armful of sheets and blankets. One last suspicion popped into Clark's mind, and his eyes narrowed. "You're not into me or something, are you?"

Matt froze in place, gazing wide-eyed. Then he guffawed. "No offense, Clark, but you're not my type. Wrong, um... plumbing, and all that."

After that, Clark allowed himself to relax. Marginally. He refused the offer of pajamas (from Jonathan Kent's closet; Matt's were too small for him). His only concession to comfort was to peel off his shoes. The couch was too short, but he didn't care. Soon he was curled on his side under the warm blankets, in a pleasant, peaceful darkness. He fell asleep almost immediately.

"Hi, honey."

"Hey, son."

"Hi, guys. How was dinner?"

The hushed voices seeped into Clark's dreams and floated him out so gently that he couldn't remember waking.

"I got my bag," Matt was saying softly.

"Did you finish your chores?" a male voice said.

"No, I didn't get around to that. I --"

"You were supposed to check the fence around the northern range," the male voice cut him off, harsher this time. "What's going on with you, son? It's not like you to be this irresponsible."

Clark closed his eyes tight. Maybe he should leave. He could super-speed out of there without the Kents ever seeing him; he'd be no more than a freak gale through their house. What had he gotten himself into? Matt's father sounded as bad as Clark's old man.

"Shhh, dad, quiet," Matt said urgently.

Clark felt their stares on him. He kept absolutely still, pretending to be fast asleep, though his heart thundered like a herd of galloping horses. No one called his bluff.

"Who's that?" a female voice whispered.

"Clark Keller," came Matt's whisper. "He's in my class."

"Keller?" The male voice was much quieter now, but still sounded disgruntled.

"Yeah," Matt said. "Um... do you know him?"

"I know the father." The distaste in the male voice pleased Clark, until he realized that it probably encompassed himself as well. "What's he doing here?"

Good question. Clark considered leaping to his feet and confronting the Kents. He could imagine Matt's answer: I found out his old man is beating him up, and I felt so sorry for him, I just had to take him in. Clark felt a searing pressure building behind his eyelids, and for a change, he welcomed it. Fine. Let's see how sorry he feels for me with my fist in his --

"He was, uh, helping me with my Physics homework," Matt was saying. "We lost track of time, and then it was too dark to check the fence. I'm sorry."

The reply leached the anger out of Clark, leaving him suddenly exhausted.

"Well, in that case," the female voice said, "I guess it's alright. It's just this once, Jonathan. And we all had a long day."

"Alright," the male voice said with a sigh. "We'll talk about it tomorrow. Good night, son."

Clark listened distractedly while the family said goodnight. Strange. Matt's dad -- Jonathan -- had sounded harsh, but neither Matt nor his mom had sounded scared. Mrs. Kent's intervention had been a demand more than a plea. And when Matt had lied to his father, he'd sounded downright miserable. For the first time in a long while, Clark wondered just how a family like this -- a normal family -- worked. He had little time to wonder, though, for sleep soon reclaimed him.

Some time after midnight, his old man came for him.

Clark had no idea how Marshal knew where to find him, but as soon as the door burst open, he knew it was him. Clark struggled against the blanket that held him like a straightjacket, and only managed to fall off the couch. The noise brought the Kents down from their bedrooms.

At the sight of Marshal, Matt smiled in relief. "What took you so long? I called you hours ago."

Clark twisted like crazy, and finally managed to free himself from the blanket. He backed against the wall, cursing himself for walking straight into this trap.

"What's going on?" Matt's father demanded. Now that Clark could see him, he looked very much like Marshal.

And Marshal told them. Told them every freakish thing Clark had ever done, all the trouble and ruin he'd wreaked. He waved his left arm as he talked, or what was left of it: between shoulder and hand, only charred bones remained.

"He's the son of the devil," Marshal concluded his retelling. "You people don't stand a chance against him. But God has given me the power to stop him."

And he drew out a long, sharp meteor rock, and started closing in on Clark.

Trapped against the wall, Clark turned a pleading stare to the Kents. But Jonathan Kent looked exactly like Marshal Keller, and the mother was Linda, and Matt was smirking at him. Clark felt the building pressure behind his eyes and knew what was coming, but he couldn't turn his stare away from Matt, couldn't stop it --

Marshal stopped it for him, plunging the meteorite stake right into his chest.

"No!"

Clark sat upright in bed, shivering and breathless. The room around him was alien. He tried to get up, but his legs tangled in something and he fell to the floor, just like in his dream. A dream, his mind seized on the realization. Just a dream.

He took a deep breath and looked around him. He was in the Kents' living room; his legs had tangled up in the blankets, and he'd fallen off the couch. The semblance to his nightmare was strong enough to make him twist and kick frantically until he freed himself. He scrambled to his feet and looked at the door, then through the door. No sign of his old man. Just a dream.

Clark dropped back onto the sofa and buried his head in his hands. I can't go on like this. I can't do this. He was so tired. He never wanted to sleep again. Instead he got up and left the Kents' house.

It was early in the morning, so early that dawn manifested not as the presence of light, but as the absence of pitch-black darkness. Clark had no problem choosing his way, though. The farm hands were stirring up already, so he bypassed their lodge and took off at super-speed some distance away.

Finding the northern range was easy enough. Clark zoomed along the fence, keeping a sharp eye on it. The crisp, open air cleared the cobwebs of dread from his mind. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but he enjoyed the sprint for itself.

Some minutes later he found a breach in the fence, and slowed to a stop. A couple of the posts had collapsed, taking the railing with them. Cows straggled on either side of the fence, munching on wet grass and gazing at Clark as if they found his speed rude. Clark smiled to himself.

It took a couple of dashes to and from the farm, but within twenty minutes, the cows all stood on one side of the fixed fence. Clark surveyed his handiwork and smiled in ridiculous satisfaction. Maybe he could be a farmer some day.

He returned to the Kents' house some time after dawn, but it was still and quiet inside. He almost tripped on the schoolbag which Matt had dropped near the entrance, the evening before. God, how could it have been only yesterday? The bruises on Linda's face, Clark's anger, the fire, the green room...

Clark shook himself and picked up Matt's bag. He hesitated before opening it. But why shouldn't he? Matt had gone over his stuff, not once, but twice. Clark opened the bag and rummaged inside until he found what he was looking for -- Matt's Physics notebook.

He took it to the kitchen, which smelled strongly of coffee and honey, and sat down at the table. For the next half an hour, he went through the notebook, correcting equations and jotting explanations. The only precise sketches in the notebook were elaborate renderings of the name "Lana". Clark stored the knowledge for later use.

To Clark, high-school physics was a joke. From the look of the notebook, though, he doubted Matt was laughing. The boy was hopeless. No one integrates a conservative force over a closed path. Why get tangled in math when you know in advance that the result is zero? And how-oh-how did Matt end up with the square root of two?

Clark sighed and crossed out the last three pages. He wondered what explanation to write. Life was a conservative force: you started somewhere, you ended up in the same place, and what difference did it make in the end? Absolutely nothing. And Matt will buy that, right. He settled for the boring example of a ball moving through a gravitational field.

"Do you have enough light, dear?"

That, and the gentle hand on his shoulder, made Clark leap up in alarm. He knocked into his chair and overturned it, but managed to catch it in one blurry motion.

Mrs. Kent smiled apologetically. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

Clark shrugged, but inwardly, he was scolding himself for getting so wrapped up in Matt's homework. He was getting sloppy with his defenses, dammit.

Then he truly saw her for the first time, and he forgot all about his defenses. She had an aura of power about her. It wasn't just her beauty -- Linda was just as beautiful, no matter what people said -- but this woman radiated a sense of strength and liveliness that overwhelmed Clark. In that single second, he both admired and resented her, because she was everything his own mom wasn't.

The second passed.

"Well." She smiled, and it was a good, strong smile. "I'm Martha, by the way."

Clark nodded acknowledgement, but she seemed to be waiting for something else.

After a moment she said, "Clark, right?"

He nodded again. He realized he was staring at her, which was the last thing he should be doing, what with the storm of emotions that rolled within him. He looked away. His eyes found Matt's open notebook on the kitchen table. He reached over and closed it.

"Matt said you're helping him with Physics," Martha said, walking over to the fridge. "I think that's great -- Wow. You boys really cleaned us out."

Clark felt the blood surging in his cheeks. "It's my fault," he began to say, but Martha was already flashing him a smile over her shoulder.

"How do you like your eggs?"

When he didn't answer, she nodded as if he'd made a choice, and set to work. Despite her earlier claim, the kitchen still seemed full of foodstuff. Martha pulled out some vegetables and started cutting them with expert hands, while the eggs sizzled in the skillet.

"Jonathan's already out in the fields," she said. "I can't believe he let me sleep in so long. And, of course, no human power can drag Matt out of bed before breakfast."

At least you guys have breakfast. Silent minutes ticked by while he stood there, watching Martha prepare breakfast with practiced grace. Good thing Jonathan wasn't there. Was Clark supposed to speak? Was he supposed to help? Was he supposed to leave? He didn't mind the latter; he was hungry, but nothing like the soul-deep hunger that usually plagued him. He could go to school now. First period started in an hour or so, anyway.

"Go ahead and sit, Clark," Martha said, flipping the eggs over in one hand and placing a kettle on the stove with the other. "Breakfast will be ready soon. Your parents know you're here, right?"

"I'm adopted," Clark answered automatically, angrily, and, he realized too late, irrelevantly.

"Oh!" Martha turned to beam at him, as if it were a wonderful thing. "So is Matt. Well, he probably told you that. Did he tell you how we found him?"

"Oh, please, mom." Matt's complaining voice preceded him into the kitchen. He followed soon after, yawning and rubbing his eyes.

"Look who's up," Martha teased him. "Good morning, honey."

"D'morning, mom." Matt dropped into his chair. "Clark. Sleep well?"

Clark shrugged. That was one question he preferred not to think of, let alone answer. He turned back to Martha. "How was that?"

"Hmm?" She finished setting the table, and her face brightened in understanding. "Oh, that. It was a little after the meteor shower. Jonathan and I -- we couldn't have children of our own, you know --"

Clark wondered if he should say something consoling, but the moment passed too quickly.

"-- so we went to this adoption agency in Metropolis. The kids were playing on the second floor. I was so nervous that I tripped near the end of the stairs."

Martha smiled in fond memory. Matt groaned and buried his face in his hands, but Clark could tell by his ears that he was blushing.

"I looked up, and there was this handsome little boy, hunching down to look at me. He didn't say a thing, he just smiled. And that was it. I knew he was the one."

This time, Clark knew he was supposed to say something, and it wasn't So why did you take Matt instead?

"That's..." He struggled for the right word. Sweet? Stupid? "... Good," he finished lamely.

Martha looked at him with surprise, then nodded. "Yes, it is. I guess you can say we didn't find him. He found us."

Well, then, he did a much better job than me.

"Are we done talking about me?" Matt asked in mock-exasperation.

"Yes, dear." Martha brought the salad and eggs to the table, followed by toasted bread, cheese, and a teapot. She gestured Clark to sit down, and he did so reluctantly, wondering what on earth he was doing there.

"So how did your parents find you, Clark?" Martha asked, piling salad on her slice of bread.

Clark tensed. Matt gave him a look that was both horrified and apologetic, but Clark ignored it. "I'm not sure," he said. "It was on the day of the meteor shower. Mom found me somewhere around the access road to Smallville."

Martha looked incredulous. "What, just wandering along the road?"

"I guess," Clark said coldly. "She doesn't talk about it much."

"But --"

"And I don't really care," he cut her off.

She opened and closed her mouth, and her hurt expression changed to pensive. "Well, it was a hard day for everyone."

"I'm just glad you and dad got out of it alright," Matt interjected quickly. "Were you guys in Metropolis?"

"No, we were just outside Smallville. We had a flat tire. Jonathan was changing it when the first meteor struck."

Matt asked another question, and Clark knew that he was stirring the conversation away from the Kellers. He should have probably pitched in, but all he could do was stare down at his hands, trying to process a train of thoughts set into motion by Martha's words.

The Kents had been just outside Smallville on the day of the meteor shower. How close had they been to the spot where Linda had found him? Would they have stopped for him? How close had he been to becoming Clark Kent?

He cast an envious glance at Matt and Martha, who were laughing over something they'd said, oblivious of the horrors of life. That could have been him: entering a home as if leaving the troubles of the world behind; bantering over the breakfast table; being hugged for goodnight... Something stuck in his throat. He was being foolish. Marshal was right about one thing: wherever Clark went, ruin followed. Had the Kents found him, he'd have probably torn their small family apart, just like he'd done the Kellers.

Matt had no idea what he'd invited into his home.

"Morning, sleepyheads!"

Clark had recognized the voice even before Jonathan Kent entered the kitchen, bringing with him a waft of fresh air and fertile soil. Matt hadn't joked when he said that Jonathan wore plaid.

He gave Martha a brief hug and a kiss, which she returned with a smile. "Hi, honey."

"Good morning, dad," Matt said with beaming eyes.

Jonathan stepped behind him and laid a hand on his shoulder. Clark winced in sympathy, but Matt leaned into the touch and flashed a smile at his father.

"Clark," Jonathan said, and there was a hint of coldness in his voice that stood out against his previous greetings.

Clark found himself staring, and quickly dropped his gaze. Except for his shirt, Jonathan looked nothing like Marshal. But there was a hidden hardness in him that made Clark's chest tighten and his breath quicken. Fear. He hated the feeling. Falling back on pure defiance, he looked Jonathan straight in the eye.

At least he tried. Jonathan had already turned to fix himself a cup of coffee. "Are you sure you weren't at the northern range yesterday, son?" he said over his shoulder.

Clark breathed a silent sigh of relief, acutely aware of Matt's stare, which was probing him.

It took Matt a second to collect himself and answer. "Yeah, I'm sure. Why?"

"Well..." Jonathan mixed a spoonful of honey into his steaming cup. "The fence is all fixed, but all the cows were on the wrong side."

Oops.

Martha concealed a smile behind her cup.

The corner of Matt's lips twitched. "Maybe one of the hands got turned around," he said lightly.

"Maybe." Jonathan sounded doubtful.

Clark watched him as he made a show of stirring his coffee and taking an appraising sip. His brown eyes rested on Clark over the rim of his cup. Clark jerked up his chin.

"So," Jonathan said, "when did you and Matt become buddies?"

"Jonathan," Martha chided softly, just as Matt said, "Dad!"

"Who told you we're buddies?" Clark retorted, ignoring everyone but Jonathan. He felt a sharp, bitter elation -- this was something familiar, finally, a situation where he knew exactly what to say and how to act. He was back in control.

Jonathan raised his eyebrows at the question. "You're the one who's helping him with his homework."

"Yeah, I am." Clark gave him a razor-sharp smile. "I'm also the bastard who's beating him up at school."

The following silence was interrupted only by Matt's groan. Jonathan's expression became hard as stone. Martha looked scandalized.

Then Jonathan slammed down his cup so hard that coffee splashed all over the table. "Get out of this house."

Still smiling, Clark got up with vexing slowness. "I'm surprised it took you so long," he taunted. He made a show of sauntering into the living room -- two could play that game -- picked up his backpack, and walked out, slamming the door shut.

It creaked open again behind him.

"Clark, wait," Matt said.

"Leave him alone, son!" Jonathan called from within the house.

"Yeah, leave me alone," Clark hissed, spinning to face him.

Matt was standing in the doorway. His expression was a blend of confusion and hurt, loud to the point of comical, but Clark didn't feel like laughing.

"You don't have to do this," Matt said quietly. "I know this is hard --"

"You know nothing, okay?" Clark snapped. He brushed a hand over his eyes, which were burning alarmingly. Not yet, dammit. He blinked rapidly. Matt was still waiting in the doorway. "Just stop wearing those stupid shirts," Clark grumbled. And I'll stop beating you up.

He made his way behind the barn, where no one could see him.

"Clark!" Matt called after him.

But he was already super-speeding away.

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:: To be continued ::