Lex forced his mind to think of the practical things. Take Clark back to his home. He still had the Kents' number memorized. The answering machine picked up, but he couldn't think of what message to leave. They must be outside, he decided, they weren't the kind of people who would let the machine screen their calls. All right. He'd do what he could to make Clark more comfortable, then try again.
Clark must be hungry. He went into the kitchen, picked up a glass, and then threw it against the steel door of the refrigerator. Of course Clark was hungry. They'd been starving him. If he had only had the kind of faith that Clark deserved--the kind of faith that Clark felt--he'd have rescued him before then. Before his gentle lover was a pathetic wraith. Before he himself had become--what he was. The reflection of his father.
That was all very well, but brooding wasn't actually tending to Clark. Kicking the shards of glass aside, he poured juice into another glass, and looked around the kitchen. No, just the juice for now, he didn't want to make Clark sick. Now that was another beautiful piece of irony. He should start a collection.
But for right now, Clark was still oblivious. He could take each moment left, memorize each tiny detail before he had to give it up for good. Each look from Clark, each gesture of trust and love, as though Clark were his mother, or Pamela. Somebody he'd loved with all his heart, and who died. The irony. Clark presumably couldn't die, but he'd killed everything in him that Clark had loved.
He carried the juice into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. "Do you think you can drink this? It's just juice." Clark nodded and Lex slipped an arm behind him to support him, then held the glass to his lips. Clark sipped and then gagged.
"Sorry. It's too...too rich."
He should have thought. "I'll water it down." He returned, and this time Clark was able to swallow.
"Better now?"
Clark nodded sleepily. Lex couldn't keep himself from smoothing the tangled hair away from his forehead.
"Don't...I must be pretty disgusting...it must have been weeks since I washed."
"Never disgusting." He wouldn't think of the irony there. "But would you like, no, not a shower yet, a bath?"
"God, yes." Clark's smile, still sleepy, curled in anticipation.
"Coming up." As Clark tried to get up, he put a hand on his shoulder. "No, stay there, I'll get it ready."
He ran warm water into the sunken bathtub and took clean washclothes, putting them on the side, opening a new cake of soap. The temperature was just a bit warmer than right, but it would cool by the time he got Clark in. It felt good to let these thoughts to Clark's comfort occupy all his mind.
Lex returned to the bedroom and saw Clark's expression change briefly as he tried to lower his legs over the side of the bed. He put one arm under Clark's knees, the other behind his back.
"Stop, I'm too heavy, you'll hurt yourself."
"You don't weigh much at all." Clark was extraordinarily light, even for being skin and bones. He wondered if Clark's body was less dense, perhaps a different bone composition.
He'd forgotten about Clark's clothing, the thin shorts, and as he carried him into the bathroom, lowered him onto the dressing bench. Clark laughed faintly as Lex crouched to help him.
"What is it?"
"Remember? That time I sat on that antique chair and it creaked and broke? You just laughed and said that they hadn't built for modern men....you went on and on about how much smaller people used to be, because you saw that I was embarassed. And then you showed me the armor, it didn't even come up to your shoulder, and said that was part of why museums put them on stands, so they'd look impressive." Lex recalled, all too clearly, Clark blushing and apologizing and frantically gathering the splintered wood, his distraught air.
He wouldn't let himself look at Clark's body. Not so much for Clark's sake but for his own. Some things, it would be better not to remember once they were lost. Resolutely, he helped Clark into the bathtub, rubbed the soap against the damp washcloth, and careful not to let his hands touch Clark's skin, lightly rubbed him with the cloth.
Just as well, he thought to himself, that he was crouching next to the tub, so Clark couldn't see the effect of his air of sleepy abandonment and tiny noises of pleasure as he lazily stretched under Lex's ministrations.
"Sit up straight, okay? Those bandages shouldn't get wet."
"'Sokay. It feels like they've healed."
Lex was about to say something dubious and then remembered that his track record with understanding anything about Clark hadn't been very good. He gingerly peeled back the adhesive tape holding the first bandage in place. Sure enough, the skin underneath was pink, faintly wrinkled, as though recovering from an injury, but definitely healed. Was that a hint of a smug smile on Clark's face, as if to say "Told you so?"
"Fast work, Clark." He kept a deliberately straight face, before realizing he was slipping into the old rapport. It was definitely a smile turning into a grin, and Clark lazily scooped a few drops of water into his hand and splashed him. "I mean, of course, fast work on the reversion into childhood." He couldn't take much more of this--a naked, wet Clark was one difficult thing, a naked, wet, affectionate, playful Clark was quite another.
He finished washing him, and got up to take the terrycloth robe from the hook on the wall. Clark looked ready to protest and Lex had to keep himself from either laughing at Clark's expression--surely Jonathan or Martha would recognize that pout--or screaming in frustration. "You need to get some sleep."
Even Clark couldn't disagree with that, and Lex helped him up and into the robe. His powers of recovery were remarkable; not only was he able to walk back into the bedroom, but he barely needed Lex's support. Just like the child he'd resembled earlier, he was sound asleep almost the moment he was in the bed. Lex looked at him for a long moment. So much could have been different.
Looking at Clark wouldn't make it any easier. He'd go call the Kents.
Clark must be hungry. He went into the kitchen, picked up a glass, and then threw it against the steel door of the refrigerator. Of course Clark was hungry. They'd been starving him. If he had only had the kind of faith that Clark deserved--the kind of faith that Clark felt--he'd have rescued him before then. Before his gentle lover was a pathetic wraith. Before he himself had become--what he was. The reflection of his father.
That was all very well, but brooding wasn't actually tending to Clark. Kicking the shards of glass aside, he poured juice into another glass, and looked around the kitchen. No, just the juice for now, he didn't want to make Clark sick. Now that was another beautiful piece of irony. He should start a collection.
But for right now, Clark was still oblivious. He could take each moment left, memorize each tiny detail before he had to give it up for good. Each look from Clark, each gesture of trust and love, as though Clark were his mother, or Pamela. Somebody he'd loved with all his heart, and who died. The irony. Clark presumably couldn't die, but he'd killed everything in him that Clark had loved.
He carried the juice into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. "Do you think you can drink this? It's just juice." Clark nodded and Lex slipped an arm behind him to support him, then held the glass to his lips. Clark sipped and then gagged.
"Sorry. It's too...too rich."
He should have thought. "I'll water it down." He returned, and this time Clark was able to swallow.
"Better now?"
Clark nodded sleepily. Lex couldn't keep himself from smoothing the tangled hair away from his forehead.
"Don't...I must be pretty disgusting...it must have been weeks since I washed."
"Never disgusting." He wouldn't think of the irony there. "But would you like, no, not a shower yet, a bath?"
"God, yes." Clark's smile, still sleepy, curled in anticipation.
"Coming up." As Clark tried to get up, he put a hand on his shoulder. "No, stay there, I'll get it ready."
He ran warm water into the sunken bathtub and took clean washclothes, putting them on the side, opening a new cake of soap. The temperature was just a bit warmer than right, but it would cool by the time he got Clark in. It felt good to let these thoughts to Clark's comfort occupy all his mind.
Lex returned to the bedroom and saw Clark's expression change briefly as he tried to lower his legs over the side of the bed. He put one arm under Clark's knees, the other behind his back.
"Stop, I'm too heavy, you'll hurt yourself."
"You don't weigh much at all." Clark was extraordinarily light, even for being skin and bones. He wondered if Clark's body was less dense, perhaps a different bone composition.
He'd forgotten about Clark's clothing, the thin shorts, and as he carried him into the bathroom, lowered him onto the dressing bench. Clark laughed faintly as Lex crouched to help him.
"What is it?"
"Remember? That time I sat on that antique chair and it creaked and broke? You just laughed and said that they hadn't built for modern men....you went on and on about how much smaller people used to be, because you saw that I was embarassed. And then you showed me the armor, it didn't even come up to your shoulder, and said that was part of why museums put them on stands, so they'd look impressive." Lex recalled, all too clearly, Clark blushing and apologizing and frantically gathering the splintered wood, his distraught air.
He wouldn't let himself look at Clark's body. Not so much for Clark's sake but for his own. Some things, it would be better not to remember once they were lost. Resolutely, he helped Clark into the bathtub, rubbed the soap against the damp washcloth, and careful not to let his hands touch Clark's skin, lightly rubbed him with the cloth.
Just as well, he thought to himself, that he was crouching next to the tub, so Clark couldn't see the effect of his air of sleepy abandonment and tiny noises of pleasure as he lazily stretched under Lex's ministrations.
"Sit up straight, okay? Those bandages shouldn't get wet."
"'Sokay. It feels like they've healed."
Lex was about to say something dubious and then remembered that his track record with understanding anything about Clark hadn't been very good. He gingerly peeled back the adhesive tape holding the first bandage in place. Sure enough, the skin underneath was pink, faintly wrinkled, as though recovering from an injury, but definitely healed. Was that a hint of a smug smile on Clark's face, as if to say "Told you so?"
"Fast work, Clark." He kept a deliberately straight face, before realizing he was slipping into the old rapport. It was definitely a smile turning into a grin, and Clark lazily scooped a few drops of water into his hand and splashed him. "I mean, of course, fast work on the reversion into childhood." He couldn't take much more of this--a naked, wet Clark was one difficult thing, a naked, wet, affectionate, playful Clark was quite another.
He finished washing him, and got up to take the terrycloth robe from the hook on the wall. Clark looked ready to protest and Lex had to keep himself from either laughing at Clark's expression--surely Jonathan or Martha would recognize that pout--or screaming in frustration. "You need to get some sleep."
Even Clark couldn't disagree with that, and Lex helped him up and into the robe. His powers of recovery were remarkable; not only was he able to walk back into the bedroom, but he barely needed Lex's support. Just like the child he'd resembled earlier, he was sound asleep almost the moment he was in the bed. Lex looked at him for a long moment. So much could have been different.
Looking at Clark wouldn't make it any easier. He'd go call the Kents.