Chapter 5
The Kent's old pick-up bounced along the south pasture, cutting a beeline for the homestead. As Martha fought to avoid as many bumps as possible, Jonathan tried to keep as much of himself between his son and the hard truck bed as he possibly could. Jonathan Kent was a man of few regrets but at this moment he was ready to kick himself for making Clark turn down the new truck that Lex Luthor had given him; those new shocks would have come in handy. If he had known then what he knew now, he might have swallowed his damnable pride and let Clark keep the thing.
In the pick-up's cab, Martha was desperately trying to organize her thoughts for the task ahead. "I'll need needle and thread to close those cuts," she muttered as she swerved to avoid a pothole. "Or maybe I should just leave them open. Clark usually heals on his own when he's not around those rocks so when they start to heal I'll know he's getting better. I'll need some kind of antibiotic and I'll have to figure out a way to clean out all that dirt." Inspiration struck and she hollered out the back window. "Jonathan!" Her voice barely carried above the wind that battered her. "When we get home, we need to carry Clark upstairs to the big bathroom. I want to clean those wounds before we do anything."
In the truck bed, Jonathan frowned as Clark moaned in pain. He pulled his son into a more secure position against his body and shouted back to his wife. "I don't think we can get him that far," he answered honestly. He was exhausted and the thought of carting his son's considerable bulk up a flight of stairs was too much for his weary body to contemplate.
"We have to," his wife yelled. "Besides, once we get that shard out of his leg . . . " Martha swallowed convulsively before continuing. "I think it might bleed. A lot."
"But he'll be fine once we get that shard out, right? He's always been fine in the past once he got away from the rocks."
Jonathan's voice carried all the hope she was feeling but Martha doubted it would be that easy. The meteor's poison was running rampant through Clark's system and no amount of wanting it otherwise would change the facts. All she really knew for certain was that her son was deathly ill and she wasn't sure she could save him.
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Clark groaned as the pick-up bounced over the ruts in the road. He heard someone murmuring words that he sensed were meant to be encouraging but he couldn't focus on them. The roaring in his head was too loud. He felt something close around him, securing him from behind and he leaned against the warmth at his back.
The young Kent was so cold. He couldn't remember ever having been too cold or too warm a day in his life and yet today he had known both. In the part of his brain that was still rational, still functioning on some normal level, he couldn't decide which was worse - the scalding heat of the sun that burned his skin or the bone-numbing cold that left him shivering uncontrollably. Unfortunately, the part of him that was aware enough to consider the problem was buried deep beneath pain and cold and fear, for these were the things that were foremost in his conscious mind.
Jonathan felt Clark shiver despite the hot sun. "Hang on, Clark," he whispered in his son's ear. "We're almost home. Just hang on a little while longer and your mom and I'll have you fixed up before you know it."
"Dad!" Clark called to his father. His voice echoed in his ears and he couldn't see past the dark walls that hemmed in around him.
Clark's cry carried above the roar of the wind. Jonathan tightened his grip and spoke into Clark's ear. "I'm here son."
Clark reached out his hand, trying to feel his way through the darkness. "Dad. Wake up, Dad. I need you." He knew his father was here somewhere, but he couldn't see a thing. Suddenly, the darkness was replaced with blinding, burning light. Green light that pierced his very bones and tore at his nerve endings. Clark could feel the skin begin to peel away from his body as the green light pulsed brighter. "Dad!" Frantic, he began to tear at the rock surrounding him. His fingers bled and he felt the exposed flesh scrape against the walls that held him captive. "Dad! Help me!"
*He's dreaming.* Jonathan told himself as Clark began to thrash weakly in his grasp. The word 'hallucinating' floated at the edge of his mind but was refused entry. "I'm here, son. I'm right here," his mouth said, but his heart was pounding out something completely different. *He's dying. He's dying. He's dying.* Each time the blood pumped through his chest he heard the words as clearly as if he'd shouted them.
Jonathan wanted to speak then, wanted to tell Clark how much he loved him and admired him. He wanted Clark to know how very proud he was to call him 'son' and how proud he was of Clark. But they were slowing down and the house was looming closer, so he simply held tight while Martha parked them close to the door, and prepared his tired body for the task ahead.
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It had proven easier than they thought to move Clark up the stairs. In his semiconscious state he was able to provide some assistance as they double-teamed him into the bathtub. Martha's sharp sewing scissors removed the obstacle of Clark's clothing and it was only when he lay naked before them that her hands shook.
Deep black bruises covered him from head to toe. Dirt and blood marked the places where the sharp rocks had cut him as he fell. The long gashes on his chest, like the deep wound on his leg, gaped open, leaking blood slowly as if reluctant to give up the precious fluid. The swollen veins of grayish-green that stood out in stark relief against Clark's pale skin gave mute testament to the fact that, while he might be Jonathan and Martha Kent's son in heart and spirit, he was not the son of their bodies - or of their earth.
"Is the water warm enough?"
Jonathan turned to his wife as he took his mind off the water he was running into the tub near Clark's feet. "What? I didn't hear you."
Martha cleared her throat and swallowed. She hadn't realized she was whispering. "Is the water warm enough?" she repeated.
"I think so. It doesn't feel too much warmer than the air. That's what you wanted, right?"
She nodded and smiled, then took the detached shower wand from her husband. "I didn't think this would ever come in so handy again," she remarked as she began to gently hose the dirt off Clark's skin. They had bought the shower head unit when they'd adopted Clark. It made it easier to bathe the exuberant child and they had often felt it had been worth the investment while he was growing up.
"I know. I wish it hadn't."
Warmth. Water. Clark could feel it cascading down his body and his mind reached for it as something tangible in the darkness. A distant memory bubbled the surface of Clark's exhausted brain and he was eleven years old again.
*****
It had been a dry winter and an even drier spring. The heat of summer lay heavy on the heartland and dust hung in a continuous layer above the roads and fields. To Clark, it felt as if the whole world had dried up and nothing would ever be green again. Thunder was rumbling in the evening air but so far not a drop had fallen from the blue-black sky. He stood in the yard, his face turned upward, eyes closed, willing it to rain when the sky opened up.
"Mom! It's raining!"
"Clark, come in here, you'll get soaked."
"But, Mom, it feels so good."
"There's a wind coming up, Clark, get in here before you catch a chill."
As if on command, a breeze swirled about him and the warm rain turned cold.
*****
The water ran over him, running into the broken places of his skin, washing them clean. Gentle hands swiped away the dirt and though it hurt, it was a different sort of pain, a pain that meant comfort at it's core.
As the dirt washed away, the paleness of Clark's skin became even more apparent against the white enamel tub. Martha's smile faded as Clark shivered slightly. She warmed the water up a bit. She knew that the fever was making him cold but she also knew that she shouldn't make the water so hot as to risk raising it further. Well, that was the theory anyway. Martha almost laughed aloud at the thought. She doubted that the medical world was thinking of Clark when they suggested that.
"Jonathan, would you clean him up while I get the rest of the things?"
Her eyes didn't quite meet his but he knew what things she meant. Needle, thread, scissors, bandages. *Pliers* He had a sudden intense vision of the silver needle-nose pliers entering that horrible place on Clark's thigh and he swallowed forcefully against the bile that rose in his throat.
"Jonathan?"
"Sure. I can do that. You go ahead." He picked up a washcloth to show her that he knew what she asked and smiled tightly. "It'll be just like old times, huh?"
Martha smiled back, just as tense. "Yeah." Then she bent down and kissed him, a kiss hard with desperation and hope. "I'll be right back," she promised.
Jonathan soaped the thick terry cloth and picked up one of Clark's limp hands.
*****
"Now just hold still, Clark. I know you don't like to take a bath but you have to."
Clark's luminous blue-grey eyes turned toward his father. "Why, Daddy?"
"Because you can't go around dirty all the time." Jonathan reasoned, trying not to laugh at his son's obvious displeasure.
"Why? I like being dirty."
From where she stood, eavesdropping, behind the door, Martha Kent put a hand over her mouth and suppressed a giggle.
"I know you do, Clark, but your mother doesn't like dirt all over her clean sheets and she says you have to have a bath before you go to bed."
The squirming six-year-old stilled, and considered this for a moment. Jonathan took advantage of the quiet moment and ambushed his son's hair. He couldn't wait to hear what his precocious boy would come up with next. He didn't have to wait long. Clark brightened and turned again to his father. "Then I won't go to bed. I'll just stay up forever and I won't get dirt on Mama's sheets." He announced proudly.
Jonathan laughed. He couldn't help himself. "Nice try, squirt, but you're gonna have a bath."
Clark's eyes darkened with disappointment. "But, Daddy, I'm not . . . *yawn* . . . tired."
"I know, son," Jonathan commiserated as he rinsed the shampoo out of the thick black locks, "but rules are rules and the rules say it's bedtime."
"Who makes the rules?" Clark demanded to know.
Jonathan grinned wickedly and raised his voice. "Your mother, of course."
*****
"I think I have it all." Martha's voice penetrated Jonathan's wandering thoughts. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to cut off the tears that threatened before they fell. She needed him strong now, not sentimental. He turned to speak and realized that she was standing next to him. He could see in her eyes that she'd seen his weakness and he wanted to fall apart at her feet and let the strength that had kept them going for so long pull him in.
Martha laid down the items she carried and pulled her husband tight against her. She didn't care that his hands were wet against her back and his tears were wet against her breast. She knew that they both needed this moment before they carried on. They needed to reaffirm that they were in this together no matter what happened.
For all the rough times they faced and the hardships that were inherent to farming, they had always had each other. Many other couples couldn't stay the course but they had. Their bond was strong - stronger than tornados, stronger than drought, stronger than floods and debt and lean times. It was even stronger than the steel that made up their son. So many times they had held on by only this - an embrace and the silent affirmation of their love for each other.
As if on cue, strength flowed where there was none and they could feel it coursing through their veins, pulling them from the brink. When they were once again strong, they pulled apart. Eyes met eyes and volumes were spoken without cluttering words.
"Ready?" Martha asked, her fingers gently wiping the remaining tears from her love's eyes.
"No, but let's go ahead anyway."
A ghost of a smile lifted the corners of her farmboy's mouth, a gesture she returned. "I love you, Jonathan Kent."
"I love you, Martha Kent."
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A/N: Wow! I am sooooo blown away by all the wonderful reviews. Thank you all!
I would like to apologize for the delay in getting this out. I have a couple of kids who really really really really really really really really need to go back to school. Soon. Very very soon. *breaks down in sobs* I can't WAIT another week! Vodka! I need Vodka!
Seriously, a HUGE thank you to Deanine. If it hadn't been for her (YOU ROCK! YOU ARE A GODDESS! YOU ARE SO BUSY BUT YOU HELPED ME! BEHOLD A TRUE HUMANITARIAN AND FRIEND TO ANIMALS TO BOOT!) I would never have gotten this chapter up and running.
Xanthia
