Disclaimer: I don't own them. :)
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"I'll give you a
ride," he volunteered helpfully when she returns to her desk
to call Jonathan, or, more likely, a taxicab.
"I hate to inconvenience you," she replied in a tone
that told him while she hated to do it, she would.
He bared his teeth in a friendly grin. "Don't worry about
it. Just let me get my keys."
* * * * *
In the car, she seems uncomfortable, constantly shifting in the
passenger seat, uncharacteristically silent. He has learned to
recognize the signs: this is guilt, tempered by rationalization,
and as it surges over her in waves, she finds she just can't sit
still. Then she calms herself down, repeating like a mantra that
there's no reason to be nervous, that she hasn't done anything
wrong. Except, of course, she has. Wash, rinse, repeat.
He has seen this all before. But he never expected to have this
discussion with her.
"Are you sure you really want to do this?"
"This?" She's stalling, of course, pretending not to
know what he means. She's good at it. They usually are.
He turns his gaze on her, and she gets the message.
"Oh," she says quietly.
"Look, I'm not going to tell anybody. We all have something
to lose here-or at least, you and I do, don't we?"
"So what is it, then? Blackmail?" She sounds genuinely
puzzled, not angry. What could he possibly blackmail her for?
"You might want to keep in mind that I know your secret,
too."
He can't help but smile. Threatened by Martha Kent? He supposes
he should have expected this.
"Exactly," he shrugs. "It's not about that."
He waits for her to prompt him, and when she doesn't, opting
instead to stare out the window, he continues: "It's about
you. I'm concerned, that's all."
"I appreciate that," she says cautiously.
"My father is not known for his fidelity."
"I know."
"And Mr. Kent would kill you with his bare hands." This
is, perhaps, a misguided attempt at levity, which she ignores.
"I know."
"Can I ask you a question?"
"It's a free country," she replies, keeping her tone
even, and surprising herself by pulling out her favorite line
from thirty years ago. At 10, that had been her answer to
virtually every question, as well as her most commonly-utilized
defense.
He smirks. "Why?"
"I could ask you the same question," she guesses.
"No, that doesn't work."
"No, I suppose it doesn't."
"You're not going to-"
"Look, Lex," she sighs. "I'm sorry, all right?
It's just something that happened. I'm sorry you found out. I
don't know if it's going to stop, and I don't know if it's
serious, and I don't know anything, okay? But I'm not going to
ruin anyone's life over it. No one's going to find out, and I
think that's the way your father wants it, too." Her hand
flutters upward, smoothing her hair.
"I would be surprised if that were true, frankly," he
offers.
She does not reply.
"He's fond of you."
She glances out the window.
"He won't be happy to keep it a secret for very long."
He pauses. No response.
"Is that the sort of arrangement you and Clark have?"
she asks innocently; he is beginning to realize that the honey in
her voice is often tinged with arsenic.
"I'm not threatening you," he replies, and they do not
speak again until he stops the engine in front of the Kent farm
several minutes later.
"Okay," she says to no one in particular, and begins to
collect her purse and coat as quickly as she can.
"I'm disappointed, frankly." He stares straight ahead,
as if he is still compelled to keep his eyes on the road. "I
never thought you would fall for it."
She stops moving. "Yeah, well." Her voice drops, and he
gets it: this is the city version of Martha Kent he's speaking to
now, not the one who bakes pies and is madly in love with her
farmer husband and would never, ever do anything like this.
He is beginning to understand that this version of her is bored
out of her mind, having succumbed to the farmer's charms during a
vulnerable time in her life when two thoughts were foremost in
her mind: one, marrying him would really piss off her father, and
two, maybe it would be nice to be taken care of instead of having
to do everything herself. This is the version of her that has
been forced to keep her mouth shut and her head down for twenty
years, the result of a bad decision from which she could never
summon the inner strength to recover. It's easier just to lie
down and wait for it to be over.
So that's it. This is not the woman of whom his father has taken
advantage, as has been the case so many times before; this is the
woman for whom his father has fallen, because the best match for
someone as duplicitous as his father is someone equally adept at
wearing two masks. Everyone else seems so shallow and
uncomplicated. Jonathan Kent has one face, and within his family,
he is in the minority. This is why Lex is so interested in
discovering Clark's secret; this is why he feels the sudden urge
to welcome Martha Kent to the family.
"I'm sorry," he says suddenly. "I shouldn't have-I
had no right. I thought I was doing the right thing, but, I don't
know, maybe not."
She looks at him, and he does not avoid her evaluatory stare. A
corner of her mouth quirks upward into a smile. "You're just
hoping I'll decide not to tell anyone about you and Clark."
"Hey, it's a free country." Is it a challenge? A brief
moment of understanding passes between them as they size each
other up. He decides she is teasing him; she comes to the same
conclusion. "Your car should be fixed by the time I get
home. I'll have someone bring it to the house."
"Thank you, Lex," she offers sincerely, in the
cookies-and-pies tone, and he wonders if he's supposed to read
something deeper into it.
As he drives away, it occurs to him that this is not the way the
story is supposed to go. Sometimes, the women cower and surrender
immediately. Sometimes, they attempt to seduce him (and
sometimes, he lets them). Sometimes all it takes is a brief
recitation of his father's record. Sometimes they protest and say
they haven't done anything wrong, but quickly shut up when he
threatens them--sometimes there's a husband, or a kid, or a
secret past. Martha Kent knows the history, and she knows she has
a lot to lose, so maybe it's her own mistake to make, he muses,
accelerating. He's disillusioned, certainly; he wanted to believe
in the sweet-natured, loyal farm wife. But, as she had apparently
learned about Clark, it is often impossible to impose upon people
one's own expectations about what they should do or who they
choose to be. So, what the hell? Live and let live. He turns on
the radio, resolving to mind his own business where the elder
Kents are concerned.
* * * * *
Martha is still standing outside
the door, surveying the house and the land. It is a cowardly
decision, she knows, to keep the secret forever, but she has
always been inclined to take the easy way out.
She takes a deep breath, puts her home-face back together, and
walks inside, primed to smile and be supportive. It's going to be
a long time before morning comes; it's going to be a long time
before she can be herself again.