Randal
Randal found Clark back in the testing room, muttering imprecations in Kryptonian at the computer's deliberate, it seemed, attempt to ask questions that couldn't be answered. There were no limits to how crazy an AI team could make pattern recognition. Randal chuckled. "Most of us can understand what you're saying, you know. Tough lesson?"
Clark spun around at nearly full speed and blushed just as furiously. "No, I, uh, didn't realize. I mean, I knew Dylana did, well, I guess I should have, but everyone? Uh, sorry."
Randal leaned against the desk and folded his arms. "You're better at cursing than at apologizing, I see. That's a good sign. Means you have a healthy attitude towards life in general." He held out his hand. "We haven't been formally introduced. I'm Randal."
The empath who had saved William's sanity because he was an even more sensitive esper. Clark gulped, regarded the outstretched hand, and took it gingerly. "Clark."
"Good to finally meet you." Clark, Randal noted with interest, not Kal-El. He straightened. "Let's take a break. I heard a suspicious rumor about cinnamon buns in the admin area which needs to be investigated. Purely for material control purposes, of course."
"Um, I better not. I'm already behind on my testing schedule." Clark wasn't sure if he was more uncomfortable being around Randal because it might be unpleasant for Randal, or because he was pretty sure the empath could read him like a book.
"To Wynter, the whole world is always behind schedule. Including John. Ignore him. I'd put sleeping pills in his chocolate milk if I thought I could get away with it."
"Oh well. In that case." Randal had, he realized, just offered to make him a partner in recreational crime. He grinned and stood. "We had better go make a thorough examination of those pastries, then. You won't tell Lake, will you?"
Randal groaned. "Not even Wynter and the AI team would dare try to pull a stunt like what they've been doing to you on Lake. You can tell her about the pattern recognition tests yourself. Wynter will be days fixing the computers."
Clark snorted. It was tempting.
The rumor about the cinnamon buns turned out to be true with a vengeance. Clark could smell them from a level away. His mouth watered the way it hadn't since....
Since he was much younger, "helping" his mom bake cookies....
Oh, hell. Clark gulped and turned away. It was true what they said about scent being a powerful memory trigger. All those happy days, in a warm baking-smells kitchen, sweet dough straight from the pan (something he and Pete had both done), hot cookies right out of the oven (something no one else could do, mom had cautioned him). Wonderful memories.
Gone forever. No longer his. Not his family. Not his life. Not his world.
Randal's hand on his shoulder almost made him bolt. Through the wall. How could the empath stand to touch him? How could anyone? He destroyed people's lives. He hurt everyone he cared for. Clark clenched his jaws and fought himself back under control.
"Childhood ends for all of us," Randal said gently. "Even Angela has some idea of what she's lost along the way, and what she's gained. Growing up hurts. But growing up, learning from experience, seeing the world with new eyes every day, is what living beings do. Elves may be forever young, but even they do not stay innocent. Tinkerbell was a cartoon. And not a very good one, at that. Even a good cartoon has emotions, and can be hurt."
Clark's automatic protest that the other did not understand died in his throat. Of course Randal understood. Randal would have gone irrevocably insane, as Cyrus nearly had, if he had not learned to deal with every horror that was inflicted on everyone around him.
"It's not -- growing up, that hurts," he whispered. "It's -- losing things. People."
Randal turned Clark to face him, his grip incredibly strong for a physical-normal human. Randal found a certain amount of comfort in working out with cold iron. "People die," he said in a voice as calm and solid and unthreatening - to Clark, at least -- as the weights on which he took out his frustrations. "That doesn't mean we've lost them."
Clark realized that he didn't have to answer. This close, the empath probably knew what he was thinking before he did. He closed his eyes and tried halfheartedly to pull away.
Randal held him by sheer force of will. "You haven't lost anything. Clark. Except your illusions. And your innocence. Which you would have lost anyway, sooner or later."
Coming from anyone else, that would have been a platitude. From someone who had experienced at least as much pain as he had, it was a brutal truth. Clark wondered how Randal maintained such walls around his sanity. He didn't think he'd ever be able to.
I know," he allowed, defeatedly. "I mean, Whitney went off to war. He gave his life for a cause that most people don't even know about. What have I lost, compared to that? An old spaceship that only wanted to order me around, big deal." And the illusion of being loved.
"And you kept the language, anyway." Randal's eyes had an actual glint of humor. "Being able to curse in mathematics is going to catch on, I bet. Like Klingonese. Though personally I preferred Mork from Ork." At Clark's honestly uncomprehending look, Randal chuckled. "Never mind, I'm dating myself. Though we should probably put it on your study list, as an example of how to cope from being from another planet. It's an old TV comedy."
"An old TV comedy about being from another planet?" Clark said in disbelief.
"And having odd abilities, though nothing like yours. And learning to cope with emotions. And about people who care for you, no matter who you are or what you do."
Clark's face shut down again. The only people who cared whether he lived or died were freaks too. And he couldn't stay here forever. He would have to go out into the world where he was alone again, because, as Nicole had put it, that was the only way he could justify his existence. Maybe he could partner with Nicole and Lake. At least he wasn't as likely to hurt them. That is, if they wanted an untrained teenager who screwed up so much.
Randal stared at him, but he refused to look back. They had found the pastries, anyway. He followed the empath smoothing his way into the crowd of strangers, trying to copy Randal's friendly open smile. He used to be good at smiling, he remembered.
Back when he was living a false life. Someone else's life. Someone else's world.
Randal procured five cinnamon buns and handed him four. Clark blinked at him, coming more or less back into the present again. "Aren't you hungry?"
"I'm over thirty, Clark, I don't need as many calories as you do. Eat up."
"I don't really need that many calories either." Clark gulped a bun anyway.
"You will if you try to go flying with Dylana again. Her reflexes are near speed of light, too. Don't dare her to any races, flying or running or driving. She cheats."
"Sounds like Pete," he mumbled through another pastry, memory automatically dredging up the numerous incidents with Pete's treatment to, of, and by, cars. Then he flinched, and put down the pastries. Pete was gone. They were all gone.
Randal glanced at him and brazenly lifted another pastry. "Hey!" someone protested. "Five bun limit."
"It's for my son," Randal explained. The other nodded. "...Oh. Okay."
Randal pointed at Clark's abandoned pastries and gestured. "Bring those and come on. I can see we've outstayed our welcome here." Clark obeyed without protest -- what was the point? What else did he have to do? He decided to eat another bun on the way anyway.
"I didn't know you had a son," he said after a minute. "Is he a Special too?"
Randal gave him a look Clark couldn't quite read, a small smile, a little sad. "Yes."
"What's his talent? If it's any of my business. If you don't mind me asking."
"Of course I don't mind. We can all be candid with each other here, Kal, haven't you learned that by now? We're safe here. Anything anybody doesn't want to talk about, they'll tell you to butt out, and you're not supposed to take offense, but neither are they." He took out his mini-phone, which had been crazily personalized. "Monitor, where's my boy Andy?"
"Level four, spoke two, men's room." Clark couldn't tell if that was a computer.
"Thanks." He clicked the silly-looking thing shut. "GPS," he said by way of explanation, at Clark's look. "Anyone carrying a phone is also carrying a locater beacon. Handy in emergencies, but abusing the privilege will get you a talking-to by John."
"Oh." Clark could see how that would be an effective deterrent. There were worse punishments than being dumped in the fountain. "Do you have to ask John to get a phone?"
"Nah, ask anybody in communications. But you have to wheedle them to get it customized, especially if you want something ridiculous like this." He grinned.
They headed down spoke two, and Clark paused. "Maybe we should wait until he finishes his business in the men's room?"
Randal shook his head and grinned again. "I don't think he'll mind us interrupting his mopping the floor. But you can check if you like." He tapped the side of his eye.
Clark flushed at the suggested x-ray vision invasion of privacy. Then the words sank in, and the embarrassment faded, forgotten. Mopping the floor...?
Randal pushed aside the door. "Andy! I stole a cinnamon bun for you."
The boy, about Clark's age and size, looked up, with the eyes of maybe a five-year-old. "Daddy!" He dropped the mop and ran to be enveloped in a mutual bear hug. Then the boy, easily stronger than Randal, pushed him back reprovingly. "You shouldn't steal, daddy."
"Well," Randal said in an exaggeratedly conspiratorial voice, "The nice lady let me steal it, so it was really a pretend. She let Clark steal one too." He turned Andy to face Clark, one arm still on his shoulders. "Andy, this is Clark Kent. His other name is Kal-El."
Andy held out his hand gravely. "It's nice to meet you, Clark Kent Kal-El." He frowned at the difficult pronunciation. "That's a hard name."
More than you can possibly imagine, Clark thought in the dim recesses of Kal-El's aloof mind, and was immediately ashamed of himself. "Yes, it is sometimes," he said gently. "It's nice to meet you too, Andy. Just call me Clark."
The boy's grin was so completely without any deception, so free of any tainting emotion, that it hurt. Clark remembered his dad smiling like that, once upon a time. He wondered if he ever had, even as a ... five year old.
"Clark. I always wanted to meet somebody from another planet," Andy said happily. Then he turned his attention back to Randal, as if meeting someone from another planet was just another experience to be collected, like a baseball card. They ALL knew, even the...? And it didn't set him apart or even seem that important at all? Clark felt dizzy.
"Daddy, I fixted missus Bole's hamster today!" he boasted.
"Did you now! Did Bill help you? Or did he tell you that you could do it by yourself?" Randal frowned. "And Andy, the word is 'fixed.' Say it right."
"Fixed," Andy repeated, still having trouble with the truncation. That he'd even attempted "Kal-El" was a testament to his determination. "I did it all by myself, daddy. Bill was there to watch, of course. You told me never to do stuff like that alone."
"That's right. Healing takes a lot of work to get it right. Bill got in a lot of trouble trying to do it all by himself, remember? He hurt himself."
"I know. I can even feel him hurting sometimes. But he got better, right?"
Randal nodded. "But it wasn't fun for him. You don't want to go through that."
"No." The boy shook his head. Then his eyes got wide. "Daddy, if I can feel Bill hurting, maybe I could try to help fix him? Maybe I could help people too someday?"
"Maybe." Randal smiled fondly. "We'll work on that. Can you feel me?"
"Well, of course," the boy scoffed. "I can feel you even when you're not here."
"Very good." Randal had known they were in tune since the day the child was born, but it was still a pleasure to have the boy tell him so. "How far away can you feel me?"
Andy's eyes went distant with thought. "I could feel you that time you got real hurt. And you were in ... California? Is that right?"
It was Clark's turn for his eyes to go wide. They were on the east coast.
"That's exactly right. And that's very good." He'd been shot in the gut, for krissake, it was a wonder he hadn't blown the circuits of every empath on the planet, but it was still an encouraging sign that the boy both remembered it and could pronounce "California."
He turned his son to face the alien again. "Can you feel Clark?"
Clark found himself facing intent eyes almost the same hazel as his own, frowning with concentration, mirroring ... something. Andy lifted a hand. "Can I touch you?"
"It's not just a courtesy," Randal offered. "You can say no, and with no offense."
Clark shook his head, and then bowed it. He gave over his hand, palm up this time.
The tall youngster took Clark's hand between both of his own and closed his eyes. A puzzled expression crossed his face, then it went blank. His mouth worked. He spoke.
In perfect Kryptonian. "This is our son, Kal-El. Protect him...."
Shocked astonishment on everyone's part broke the link. The young healer empath stared around him wildly. "What? What did I do?"
"You did good," Randal said softly, enveloping his son in trembling arms. "You did really, really good. As good as anything I could do. Better."
Andy frowned. "Dad. It's 'you did well,' not 'you did good.' But thanks anyway."
Randal went so pale that Clark thought he might faint. Clark considered the simple easy solution of passing out himself. Or running. He settled for steadying both of them with a mutual leaning on each other, putting his arm around Randal to hold him up.
Which also brought him back into contact with Andy, who was still frowning. "Jeezus, Kal-El, so it was you that nearly gave me a heart attack when you pulled that stupid stunt in Lab 8. I've heard of sackcloth and ashes, but you take the cake. Dad and Bill both were sick for hours. I thought I was dying. Don't do that again. Or I'll tell Lake."
Randal's mouth worked for a long minute, eyes unable to blink. Clark seconded the feeling. Randal struggled himself back to something resembling rational thought with hard-won discipline and stared at his son, gulping. "This is an -- interesting development."
Andy smiled, still the completely innocent smile of a five-year-old. "It's easier to think in Kryptonian, dad. I didn't get much else from Clark, because I'm not smart enough. I'm still, you know, low IQ. But the language makes so much more sense. I could talk better in the math-symbol language, but I can use what I got for translation, too. Kind of an idiot-savant thing. Like Rain Man, sort of, except with healer-empath contact capability."
Rain Man. "Bill is going to freak," Randal observed disconnectedly, faintly.
"Bill already knows, and is already freaked, but not nearly as much as you." The boy threw his arms around Randal's neck, voice suddenly breaking. "All these years, I could feel your love, but you couldn't say it in words I could understand. Can you feel how much I love you, for never thinking any less of me, for never giving up?" He pulled one arm away, eyes wet, and turned to Clark. "Come here," he ordered through the near-sobs, and Clark's feet obeyed without conscious volition. Andy wrapped him in an arm strong enough that Clark suspected that healer-empath might not be his only talent. "Kal-El, I wish you were an empath too. You can't imagine what you've given me. That for the first time in my life, I can tell my dad that I love him, and have him know just exactly how much I mean it."
"I could always ... feel it," Randal said huskily.
"Yeah, of course you could." Andy sniffled. "From a, a baby. Someone who was always going to be dependent, someone who was never going to be able to grow up."
"Andy, Andy, don't." The pain in Randal's voice was solid. Clark couldn't breathe.
"Nobody lies to anybody here, remember?" Andy managed in a half-whisper. "Especially not empaths and people who can see through walls." His arms tightened. "People who really love each other trust them with the truth, even when it's awful sometimes. Sometimes the things that hurt the worst are the things that mean the most."
Clark gave up fighting and let the tears come.
Randal found Clark back in the testing room, muttering imprecations in Kryptonian at the computer's deliberate, it seemed, attempt to ask questions that couldn't be answered. There were no limits to how crazy an AI team could make pattern recognition. Randal chuckled. "Most of us can understand what you're saying, you know. Tough lesson?"
Clark spun around at nearly full speed and blushed just as furiously. "No, I, uh, didn't realize. I mean, I knew Dylana did, well, I guess I should have, but everyone? Uh, sorry."
Randal leaned against the desk and folded his arms. "You're better at cursing than at apologizing, I see. That's a good sign. Means you have a healthy attitude towards life in general." He held out his hand. "We haven't been formally introduced. I'm Randal."
The empath who had saved William's sanity because he was an even more sensitive esper. Clark gulped, regarded the outstretched hand, and took it gingerly. "Clark."
"Good to finally meet you." Clark, Randal noted with interest, not Kal-El. He straightened. "Let's take a break. I heard a suspicious rumor about cinnamon buns in the admin area which needs to be investigated. Purely for material control purposes, of course."
"Um, I better not. I'm already behind on my testing schedule." Clark wasn't sure if he was more uncomfortable being around Randal because it might be unpleasant for Randal, or because he was pretty sure the empath could read him like a book.
"To Wynter, the whole world is always behind schedule. Including John. Ignore him. I'd put sleeping pills in his chocolate milk if I thought I could get away with it."
"Oh well. In that case." Randal had, he realized, just offered to make him a partner in recreational crime. He grinned and stood. "We had better go make a thorough examination of those pastries, then. You won't tell Lake, will you?"
Randal groaned. "Not even Wynter and the AI team would dare try to pull a stunt like what they've been doing to you on Lake. You can tell her about the pattern recognition tests yourself. Wynter will be days fixing the computers."
Clark snorted. It was tempting.
The rumor about the cinnamon buns turned out to be true with a vengeance. Clark could smell them from a level away. His mouth watered the way it hadn't since....
Since he was much younger, "helping" his mom bake cookies....
Oh, hell. Clark gulped and turned away. It was true what they said about scent being a powerful memory trigger. All those happy days, in a warm baking-smells kitchen, sweet dough straight from the pan (something he and Pete had both done), hot cookies right out of the oven (something no one else could do, mom had cautioned him). Wonderful memories.
Gone forever. No longer his. Not his family. Not his life. Not his world.
Randal's hand on his shoulder almost made him bolt. Through the wall. How could the empath stand to touch him? How could anyone? He destroyed people's lives. He hurt everyone he cared for. Clark clenched his jaws and fought himself back under control.
"Childhood ends for all of us," Randal said gently. "Even Angela has some idea of what she's lost along the way, and what she's gained. Growing up hurts. But growing up, learning from experience, seeing the world with new eyes every day, is what living beings do. Elves may be forever young, but even they do not stay innocent. Tinkerbell was a cartoon. And not a very good one, at that. Even a good cartoon has emotions, and can be hurt."
Clark's automatic protest that the other did not understand died in his throat. Of course Randal understood. Randal would have gone irrevocably insane, as Cyrus nearly had, if he had not learned to deal with every horror that was inflicted on everyone around him.
"It's not -- growing up, that hurts," he whispered. "It's -- losing things. People."
Randal turned Clark to face him, his grip incredibly strong for a physical-normal human. Randal found a certain amount of comfort in working out with cold iron. "People die," he said in a voice as calm and solid and unthreatening - to Clark, at least -- as the weights on which he took out his frustrations. "That doesn't mean we've lost them."
Clark realized that he didn't have to answer. This close, the empath probably knew what he was thinking before he did. He closed his eyes and tried halfheartedly to pull away.
Randal held him by sheer force of will. "You haven't lost anything. Clark. Except your illusions. And your innocence. Which you would have lost anyway, sooner or later."
Coming from anyone else, that would have been a platitude. From someone who had experienced at least as much pain as he had, it was a brutal truth. Clark wondered how Randal maintained such walls around his sanity. He didn't think he'd ever be able to.
I know," he allowed, defeatedly. "I mean, Whitney went off to war. He gave his life for a cause that most people don't even know about. What have I lost, compared to that? An old spaceship that only wanted to order me around, big deal." And the illusion of being loved.
"And you kept the language, anyway." Randal's eyes had an actual glint of humor. "Being able to curse in mathematics is going to catch on, I bet. Like Klingonese. Though personally I preferred Mork from Ork." At Clark's honestly uncomprehending look, Randal chuckled. "Never mind, I'm dating myself. Though we should probably put it on your study list, as an example of how to cope from being from another planet. It's an old TV comedy."
"An old TV comedy about being from another planet?" Clark said in disbelief.
"And having odd abilities, though nothing like yours. And learning to cope with emotions. And about people who care for you, no matter who you are or what you do."
Clark's face shut down again. The only people who cared whether he lived or died were freaks too. And he couldn't stay here forever. He would have to go out into the world where he was alone again, because, as Nicole had put it, that was the only way he could justify his existence. Maybe he could partner with Nicole and Lake. At least he wasn't as likely to hurt them. That is, if they wanted an untrained teenager who screwed up so much.
Randal stared at him, but he refused to look back. They had found the pastries, anyway. He followed the empath smoothing his way into the crowd of strangers, trying to copy Randal's friendly open smile. He used to be good at smiling, he remembered.
Back when he was living a false life. Someone else's life. Someone else's world.
Randal procured five cinnamon buns and handed him four. Clark blinked at him, coming more or less back into the present again. "Aren't you hungry?"
"I'm over thirty, Clark, I don't need as many calories as you do. Eat up."
"I don't really need that many calories either." Clark gulped a bun anyway.
"You will if you try to go flying with Dylana again. Her reflexes are near speed of light, too. Don't dare her to any races, flying or running or driving. She cheats."
"Sounds like Pete," he mumbled through another pastry, memory automatically dredging up the numerous incidents with Pete's treatment to, of, and by, cars. Then he flinched, and put down the pastries. Pete was gone. They were all gone.
Randal glanced at him and brazenly lifted another pastry. "Hey!" someone protested. "Five bun limit."
"It's for my son," Randal explained. The other nodded. "...Oh. Okay."
Randal pointed at Clark's abandoned pastries and gestured. "Bring those and come on. I can see we've outstayed our welcome here." Clark obeyed without protest -- what was the point? What else did he have to do? He decided to eat another bun on the way anyway.
"I didn't know you had a son," he said after a minute. "Is he a Special too?"
Randal gave him a look Clark couldn't quite read, a small smile, a little sad. "Yes."
"What's his talent? If it's any of my business. If you don't mind me asking."
"Of course I don't mind. We can all be candid with each other here, Kal, haven't you learned that by now? We're safe here. Anything anybody doesn't want to talk about, they'll tell you to butt out, and you're not supposed to take offense, but neither are they." He took out his mini-phone, which had been crazily personalized. "Monitor, where's my boy Andy?"
"Level four, spoke two, men's room." Clark couldn't tell if that was a computer.
"Thanks." He clicked the silly-looking thing shut. "GPS," he said by way of explanation, at Clark's look. "Anyone carrying a phone is also carrying a locater beacon. Handy in emergencies, but abusing the privilege will get you a talking-to by John."
"Oh." Clark could see how that would be an effective deterrent. There were worse punishments than being dumped in the fountain. "Do you have to ask John to get a phone?"
"Nah, ask anybody in communications. But you have to wheedle them to get it customized, especially if you want something ridiculous like this." He grinned.
They headed down spoke two, and Clark paused. "Maybe we should wait until he finishes his business in the men's room?"
Randal shook his head and grinned again. "I don't think he'll mind us interrupting his mopping the floor. But you can check if you like." He tapped the side of his eye.
Clark flushed at the suggested x-ray vision invasion of privacy. Then the words sank in, and the embarrassment faded, forgotten. Mopping the floor...?
Randal pushed aside the door. "Andy! I stole a cinnamon bun for you."
The boy, about Clark's age and size, looked up, with the eyes of maybe a five-year-old. "Daddy!" He dropped the mop and ran to be enveloped in a mutual bear hug. Then the boy, easily stronger than Randal, pushed him back reprovingly. "You shouldn't steal, daddy."
"Well," Randal said in an exaggeratedly conspiratorial voice, "The nice lady let me steal it, so it was really a pretend. She let Clark steal one too." He turned Andy to face Clark, one arm still on his shoulders. "Andy, this is Clark Kent. His other name is Kal-El."
Andy held out his hand gravely. "It's nice to meet you, Clark Kent Kal-El." He frowned at the difficult pronunciation. "That's a hard name."
More than you can possibly imagine, Clark thought in the dim recesses of Kal-El's aloof mind, and was immediately ashamed of himself. "Yes, it is sometimes," he said gently. "It's nice to meet you too, Andy. Just call me Clark."
The boy's grin was so completely without any deception, so free of any tainting emotion, that it hurt. Clark remembered his dad smiling like that, once upon a time. He wondered if he ever had, even as a ... five year old.
"Clark. I always wanted to meet somebody from another planet," Andy said happily. Then he turned his attention back to Randal, as if meeting someone from another planet was just another experience to be collected, like a baseball card. They ALL knew, even the...? And it didn't set him apart or even seem that important at all? Clark felt dizzy.
"Daddy, I fixted missus Bole's hamster today!" he boasted.
"Did you now! Did Bill help you? Or did he tell you that you could do it by yourself?" Randal frowned. "And Andy, the word is 'fixed.' Say it right."
"Fixed," Andy repeated, still having trouble with the truncation. That he'd even attempted "Kal-El" was a testament to his determination. "I did it all by myself, daddy. Bill was there to watch, of course. You told me never to do stuff like that alone."
"That's right. Healing takes a lot of work to get it right. Bill got in a lot of trouble trying to do it all by himself, remember? He hurt himself."
"I know. I can even feel him hurting sometimes. But he got better, right?"
Randal nodded. "But it wasn't fun for him. You don't want to go through that."
"No." The boy shook his head. Then his eyes got wide. "Daddy, if I can feel Bill hurting, maybe I could try to help fix him? Maybe I could help people too someday?"
"Maybe." Randal smiled fondly. "We'll work on that. Can you feel me?"
"Well, of course," the boy scoffed. "I can feel you even when you're not here."
"Very good." Randal had known they were in tune since the day the child was born, but it was still a pleasure to have the boy tell him so. "How far away can you feel me?"
Andy's eyes went distant with thought. "I could feel you that time you got real hurt. And you were in ... California? Is that right?"
It was Clark's turn for his eyes to go wide. They were on the east coast.
"That's exactly right. And that's very good." He'd been shot in the gut, for krissake, it was a wonder he hadn't blown the circuits of every empath on the planet, but it was still an encouraging sign that the boy both remembered it and could pronounce "California."
He turned his son to face the alien again. "Can you feel Clark?"
Clark found himself facing intent eyes almost the same hazel as his own, frowning with concentration, mirroring ... something. Andy lifted a hand. "Can I touch you?"
"It's not just a courtesy," Randal offered. "You can say no, and with no offense."
Clark shook his head, and then bowed it. He gave over his hand, palm up this time.
The tall youngster took Clark's hand between both of his own and closed his eyes. A puzzled expression crossed his face, then it went blank. His mouth worked. He spoke.
In perfect Kryptonian. "This is our son, Kal-El. Protect him...."
Shocked astonishment on everyone's part broke the link. The young healer empath stared around him wildly. "What? What did I do?"
"You did good," Randal said softly, enveloping his son in trembling arms. "You did really, really good. As good as anything I could do. Better."
Andy frowned. "Dad. It's 'you did well,' not 'you did good.' But thanks anyway."
Randal went so pale that Clark thought he might faint. Clark considered the simple easy solution of passing out himself. Or running. He settled for steadying both of them with a mutual leaning on each other, putting his arm around Randal to hold him up.
Which also brought him back into contact with Andy, who was still frowning. "Jeezus, Kal-El, so it was you that nearly gave me a heart attack when you pulled that stupid stunt in Lab 8. I've heard of sackcloth and ashes, but you take the cake. Dad and Bill both were sick for hours. I thought I was dying. Don't do that again. Or I'll tell Lake."
Randal's mouth worked for a long minute, eyes unable to blink. Clark seconded the feeling. Randal struggled himself back to something resembling rational thought with hard-won discipline and stared at his son, gulping. "This is an -- interesting development."
Andy smiled, still the completely innocent smile of a five-year-old. "It's easier to think in Kryptonian, dad. I didn't get much else from Clark, because I'm not smart enough. I'm still, you know, low IQ. But the language makes so much more sense. I could talk better in the math-symbol language, but I can use what I got for translation, too. Kind of an idiot-savant thing. Like Rain Man, sort of, except with healer-empath contact capability."
Rain Man. "Bill is going to freak," Randal observed disconnectedly, faintly.
"Bill already knows, and is already freaked, but not nearly as much as you." The boy threw his arms around Randal's neck, voice suddenly breaking. "All these years, I could feel your love, but you couldn't say it in words I could understand. Can you feel how much I love you, for never thinking any less of me, for never giving up?" He pulled one arm away, eyes wet, and turned to Clark. "Come here," he ordered through the near-sobs, and Clark's feet obeyed without conscious volition. Andy wrapped him in an arm strong enough that Clark suspected that healer-empath might not be his only talent. "Kal-El, I wish you were an empath too. You can't imagine what you've given me. That for the first time in my life, I can tell my dad that I love him, and have him know just exactly how much I mean it."
"I could always ... feel it," Randal said huskily.
"Yeah, of course you could." Andy sniffled. "From a, a baby. Someone who was always going to be dependent, someone who was never going to be able to grow up."
"Andy, Andy, don't." The pain in Randal's voice was solid. Clark couldn't breathe.
"Nobody lies to anybody here, remember?" Andy managed in a half-whisper. "Especially not empaths and people who can see through walls." His arms tightened. "People who really love each other trust them with the truth, even when it's awful sometimes. Sometimes the things that hurt the worst are the things that mean the most."
Clark gave up fighting and let the tears come.
