Standard disclaimers apply.
Chapter 8
Jonathan entered the hotel lobby quietly. Clark was sleeping peacefully in the truck. He was suddenly reminded of all the road trips they'd taken as a family. The Grand Canyon and other various cites. The hotels were always Clark's favorite part for some reason. He'd be running around, stealing the packaged soaps and challenging elderly people to Ping Pong. That was where one of the few major accidents occurred involving Clark's powers. He swung too hard once and BAM! Hit the man right on the forehead and knocked him out cold. It had taken a lot of explaining and yes, lying to get out of that jam.
Jonathan headed towards the front desk. He had left his wallet at home but he did have a credit card that he always left in the truck for emergencies. He was pretty sure this would qualify as an emergency. He ordered a room, took his key, and went back out to the truck.
With a sigh, he opened up the passenger side door. Jonathan shook Clark gently. "Clark...Clark, pal, gotta wake up now. We're at the hotel."
Clark's eyes opened slowly. He blinked a few times, and turned to his dad. "Hey," he mumbled, his breath heavy and labored.
"Hey yourself," Jonathan replied with a friendly grin. "Now c'mon. We need to call your mom."
With a groan, Clark got out of the truck. His knees wobbled a little bit. Jonathan bit a hand on his back. "You okay, Clark?"
"Fine," Clark muttered. "Just a little dizzy."
Jonathan directed Clark to their room, Room 102, where Clark promptly flopped down on his half of the queen sized bed.
"I'll be right back," Jonathan told him. "I'm just going to wash up."
Jonathan entered the small bathroom, smiling slightly seeing all the packaged soaps. Maybe he'd convince Clark to smuggle a few, just for old time's sake. Jonathan grimaced as he looked into the mirror. It was times like this that he felt very old, and in his eyes, looked very old. Lord knew raising teenagers was enough to give anybody gray hair. Jonathan turned on the taps and let the cold water soak through his hands before bringing them up to his face and basking in the cold water.
Toweling his face dry, Jonathan opened the bathroom door. Clark was on the bed, watching a re-run of "I Love Lucy." He was sprawled out, covering almost every inch of the bed. Jonathan snorted. Some things never changed. Clark or "Icy Toes," as Martha had dubbed him had climbed into bed with them frequently when he was younger after a nightmare or when every noise outside made him freak out. Clark would crawl into his father's embrace and then promptly be a cover hog, and practically push him off the bed. It had been amusing if it hadn't been so damn annoying. Oh, well. He knew he'd have something to embarrass Clark about whenever he brought his dates home. Many mortifying stories that Clark would kill him if he revealed to Ms. Lana Lang.
Jonathan sighed. Thinking like that was usually just to distract him from the bigger picture, which was usually something bad.
"You gonna call Mom?" Clark asked, his eyes never leaving the screen as Ricky told Lucy for the 5,489,342 1/2 time that she couldn't be in the show.
"Just about to," Jonathan replied, picking up the phone and dialing home.
It took a lot of convincing, reassurance from both Jonathan and Clark of Clark's safety and almost an hours time, but Martha Kent finally stopped worrying. At least she said she did. Jonathan didn't know what to believe. She had agreed that Jonathan would stay with him that night and come back in the morning, without Clark, to help her clean up the meteor rocks. Now that Martha was taken care of, there was something Jonathan needed to address.
"Clark," Jonathan began sucking in a deep breath. He sat down on the edge of the bed.
"We need to talk. I know." Clark flicked off the TV and sat up straighter.
"If you're tired...if you want to wait until morning...."
Clark held up a hand. "No. Let's get this over with and then we can put it all behind us."
Jonathan smiled. He played with his wedding ring a little bit, twisting it around and around before he finally screwed up the courage to ask the question he'd had bottled up inside since that day....
"What were you thinking when you did it?" Jonathan finally asked, avoiding Clark's eyes.
"Not exactly a soup question," Clark deadpanned and father and son laughed nervously. Clark half-shrugged. "I don't know what I was thinking. I guess.....I guess everything just hit me at once and I wasn't ready for it. Finding out I was an alien and stuff. I didn't know how to deal with it...so I just thought...hey there's an easy way out if you can...if you can have the guts to do it." Clark scratched the back of his neck nervously.
There was a long stretch if silence. Jonathan rocked back and forth slowly, trying to let the rush of information process in his brain. Clark thought it was hard for him....well it was hard for Jonathan too. He had to listen to all the reasons why his son was unhappy, and if he didn't that'd just make things worse.
"Why did you use a razor?" Jonathan finally asked. "You knew it couldn't hurt you."
Clark sighed. "I'd already tried a gun."
'Oh, God,' Jonathan thought. Clark, his son, his baby boy, had put a gun up to his temple and squeezed the trigger, hoping to end it all....ohGodohGodohGod. No.
"And it didn't work." Clark brushed his hair upwards a little revealing a little white mark. "That's what a bullet did to me." He snickered. "I don't know what I was thinking with the razor." He paused. "Yeah, maybe I do."
Jonathan looked at him expectantly. Clark swallowed a few times and emmitted a few shaky breaths. Jonathan touched the white mark on the side of Clark's head gently. Oh God.
"I was out in the fields, so mad that it didn't work that I just lost it. I remembered this time when I was six years old and I wanted to shave just like you. So I went up to the bathroom with your razor, only I couldn't find any shaving cream. I guessed it wouldn't matter if I didn't use any. So I just scraped it down my face and I guess I wasn't as strong back then because a long gash appeared and there was blood running down my face. And I could see it so clearly, bright red, shimmering blood, and it seemed to be everywhere. Mom cleaned me up and all that, but I could still see it in my head, and I was fascinated by it.." Clark swallowed a lump in his throat. "I just ran blindly through the field to the house that day and I grabbed your razor from the bathroom and I just wanted it to happen again, just like it did when I was six. I was only thinking that I wanted to end it, any way I could. Only it didn't work like it did when I was six. Nothing happened. I didn't know whether to be relieved or angry."
Jonathan leaned over and hugged Clark, his son, his child. Always his child, no matter how old he got to be. Clark returned the embrace, feeling lucky to have Jonathan Kent as a father. Not all dads gave hugs like Jonathan did or told him every day just how much he loved him. Some beat their kids around because they were to drunk and stupid to care that they were hurting their child. If anybody even lay one finger on Clark, Jonathan would go ballistic. Clark guessed he was lucky for that.
"Thing is, you don't get to pick your parents. No one automatically gets the father they want. No one. Sometimes, however, if you're lucky and if you're blessed, you get the father you need. That's the best you can hope for, and really......that's more than enough."
Chuck Fishman "Early Edition"
TBC soon maybe.
Chapter 8
Jonathan entered the hotel lobby quietly. Clark was sleeping peacefully in the truck. He was suddenly reminded of all the road trips they'd taken as a family. The Grand Canyon and other various cites. The hotels were always Clark's favorite part for some reason. He'd be running around, stealing the packaged soaps and challenging elderly people to Ping Pong. That was where one of the few major accidents occurred involving Clark's powers. He swung too hard once and BAM! Hit the man right on the forehead and knocked him out cold. It had taken a lot of explaining and yes, lying to get out of that jam.
Jonathan headed towards the front desk. He had left his wallet at home but he did have a credit card that he always left in the truck for emergencies. He was pretty sure this would qualify as an emergency. He ordered a room, took his key, and went back out to the truck.
With a sigh, he opened up the passenger side door. Jonathan shook Clark gently. "Clark...Clark, pal, gotta wake up now. We're at the hotel."
Clark's eyes opened slowly. He blinked a few times, and turned to his dad. "Hey," he mumbled, his breath heavy and labored.
"Hey yourself," Jonathan replied with a friendly grin. "Now c'mon. We need to call your mom."
With a groan, Clark got out of the truck. His knees wobbled a little bit. Jonathan bit a hand on his back. "You okay, Clark?"
"Fine," Clark muttered. "Just a little dizzy."
Jonathan directed Clark to their room, Room 102, where Clark promptly flopped down on his half of the queen sized bed.
"I'll be right back," Jonathan told him. "I'm just going to wash up."
Jonathan entered the small bathroom, smiling slightly seeing all the packaged soaps. Maybe he'd convince Clark to smuggle a few, just for old time's sake. Jonathan grimaced as he looked into the mirror. It was times like this that he felt very old, and in his eyes, looked very old. Lord knew raising teenagers was enough to give anybody gray hair. Jonathan turned on the taps and let the cold water soak through his hands before bringing them up to his face and basking in the cold water.
Toweling his face dry, Jonathan opened the bathroom door. Clark was on the bed, watching a re-run of "I Love Lucy." He was sprawled out, covering almost every inch of the bed. Jonathan snorted. Some things never changed. Clark or "Icy Toes," as Martha had dubbed him had climbed into bed with them frequently when he was younger after a nightmare or when every noise outside made him freak out. Clark would crawl into his father's embrace and then promptly be a cover hog, and practically push him off the bed. It had been amusing if it hadn't been so damn annoying. Oh, well. He knew he'd have something to embarrass Clark about whenever he brought his dates home. Many mortifying stories that Clark would kill him if he revealed to Ms. Lana Lang.
Jonathan sighed. Thinking like that was usually just to distract him from the bigger picture, which was usually something bad.
"You gonna call Mom?" Clark asked, his eyes never leaving the screen as Ricky told Lucy for the 5,489,342 1/2 time that she couldn't be in the show.
"Just about to," Jonathan replied, picking up the phone and dialing home.
It took a lot of convincing, reassurance from both Jonathan and Clark of Clark's safety and almost an hours time, but Martha Kent finally stopped worrying. At least she said she did. Jonathan didn't know what to believe. She had agreed that Jonathan would stay with him that night and come back in the morning, without Clark, to help her clean up the meteor rocks. Now that Martha was taken care of, there was something Jonathan needed to address.
"Clark," Jonathan began sucking in a deep breath. He sat down on the edge of the bed.
"We need to talk. I know." Clark flicked off the TV and sat up straighter.
"If you're tired...if you want to wait until morning...."
Clark held up a hand. "No. Let's get this over with and then we can put it all behind us."
Jonathan smiled. He played with his wedding ring a little bit, twisting it around and around before he finally screwed up the courage to ask the question he'd had bottled up inside since that day....
"What were you thinking when you did it?" Jonathan finally asked, avoiding Clark's eyes.
"Not exactly a soup question," Clark deadpanned and father and son laughed nervously. Clark half-shrugged. "I don't know what I was thinking. I guess.....I guess everything just hit me at once and I wasn't ready for it. Finding out I was an alien and stuff. I didn't know how to deal with it...so I just thought...hey there's an easy way out if you can...if you can have the guts to do it." Clark scratched the back of his neck nervously.
There was a long stretch if silence. Jonathan rocked back and forth slowly, trying to let the rush of information process in his brain. Clark thought it was hard for him....well it was hard for Jonathan too. He had to listen to all the reasons why his son was unhappy, and if he didn't that'd just make things worse.
"Why did you use a razor?" Jonathan finally asked. "You knew it couldn't hurt you."
Clark sighed. "I'd already tried a gun."
'Oh, God,' Jonathan thought. Clark, his son, his baby boy, had put a gun up to his temple and squeezed the trigger, hoping to end it all....ohGodohGodohGod. No.
"And it didn't work." Clark brushed his hair upwards a little revealing a little white mark. "That's what a bullet did to me." He snickered. "I don't know what I was thinking with the razor." He paused. "Yeah, maybe I do."
Jonathan looked at him expectantly. Clark swallowed a few times and emmitted a few shaky breaths. Jonathan touched the white mark on the side of Clark's head gently. Oh God.
"I was out in the fields, so mad that it didn't work that I just lost it. I remembered this time when I was six years old and I wanted to shave just like you. So I went up to the bathroom with your razor, only I couldn't find any shaving cream. I guessed it wouldn't matter if I didn't use any. So I just scraped it down my face and I guess I wasn't as strong back then because a long gash appeared and there was blood running down my face. And I could see it so clearly, bright red, shimmering blood, and it seemed to be everywhere. Mom cleaned me up and all that, but I could still see it in my head, and I was fascinated by it.." Clark swallowed a lump in his throat. "I just ran blindly through the field to the house that day and I grabbed your razor from the bathroom and I just wanted it to happen again, just like it did when I was six. I was only thinking that I wanted to end it, any way I could. Only it didn't work like it did when I was six. Nothing happened. I didn't know whether to be relieved or angry."
Jonathan leaned over and hugged Clark, his son, his child. Always his child, no matter how old he got to be. Clark returned the embrace, feeling lucky to have Jonathan Kent as a father. Not all dads gave hugs like Jonathan did or told him every day just how much he loved him. Some beat their kids around because they were to drunk and stupid to care that they were hurting their child. If anybody even lay one finger on Clark, Jonathan would go ballistic. Clark guessed he was lucky for that.
"Thing is, you don't get to pick your parents. No one automatically gets the father they want. No one. Sometimes, however, if you're lucky and if you're blessed, you get the father you need. That's the best you can hope for, and really......that's more than enough."
Chuck Fishman "Early Edition"
TBC soon maybe.