Did Lionel really mean it? If he wrote *that* would Lionel really let him go? Or would he still take him wherever he was going to, and have that kind of a weapon to use against the Kents? Or even worse, would he publish it just to destroy them or make it look like anything they said about him was getting even? What if that was even Cassandra's vision, that if he ever escaped or were released, that he'd find everybody dead? Was this a fate he could avoid, did she see the consequences of a choice, not a certainty? He leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the window and tried to think.
When Lionel spoke again, Clark's first reaction was that the older man was reading his mind. "Clark, as long as you co-operate with me, I'd have no reason at all to want to hurt you or your family. I'd gain nothing but a very messy situation and far more difficulty getting what I do want."
Clark hated himself. But the thought of being Lionel Luthor's prisoner--no, Lionel would see him as his possession--and never again seeing the people he loved was even worse. "Fine. I'll do it." Keeping his eyes averted, so he wouldn't have to see Lionel's satisfaction, he took the pen and notebook handed to him and wrote the words, handed it back, and from the rustle of the jacket, guessed that Lionel put it in his pocket.
"All right, Clark, I'll expect you tomorrow, in my Metropolis office. When do you get out of school?"
Even his bones seemed to go limp with relief. "Four."
"4:15, then?"
How could Lionel sound so normal, as if they were old friends meeting for coffee? Still feeling weakened, now more from relief and the mindless calm that comes after surrender, he nodded.
"Peter, hand me that case up front, please."
Clark felt a sudden flicker of alarm, as though there were somehow still a spark in the wet ashes of a doused fire, but the case was empty, with a space that just fit the Kryptonite bar. It must have been lead-lined, too, because the moment Lionel snapped it shut, most of his physical nausea and the pain that seemed to abrade every nerve in his body ended. Moving as fast as he could without actually using his speed, he scrambled past Lionel and opened the door, still half-anticipating some sadistic last-minute trick. But there was no cleared throat, no sweetly reasonable "by the way," just the blessedly normal sounds of the farm and then, trying to brace himself for some twist, he slammed the door behind him and watched, exhaustion fogging his mind, the SUV drive off, as though Lionel had merely given him a lift rather than leaving so much of him and his life in pieces.
When Lionel spoke again, Clark's first reaction was that the older man was reading his mind. "Clark, as long as you co-operate with me, I'd have no reason at all to want to hurt you or your family. I'd gain nothing but a very messy situation and far more difficulty getting what I do want."
Clark hated himself. But the thought of being Lionel Luthor's prisoner--no, Lionel would see him as his possession--and never again seeing the people he loved was even worse. "Fine. I'll do it." Keeping his eyes averted, so he wouldn't have to see Lionel's satisfaction, he took the pen and notebook handed to him and wrote the words, handed it back, and from the rustle of the jacket, guessed that Lionel put it in his pocket.
"All right, Clark, I'll expect you tomorrow, in my Metropolis office. When do you get out of school?"
Even his bones seemed to go limp with relief. "Four."
"4:15, then?"
How could Lionel sound so normal, as if they were old friends meeting for coffee? Still feeling weakened, now more from relief and the mindless calm that comes after surrender, he nodded.
"Peter, hand me that case up front, please."
Clark felt a sudden flicker of alarm, as though there were somehow still a spark in the wet ashes of a doused fire, but the case was empty, with a space that just fit the Kryptonite bar. It must have been lead-lined, too, because the moment Lionel snapped it shut, most of his physical nausea and the pain that seemed to abrade every nerve in his body ended. Moving as fast as he could without actually using his speed, he scrambled past Lionel and opened the door, still half-anticipating some sadistic last-minute trick. But there was no cleared throat, no sweetly reasonable "by the way," just the blessedly normal sounds of the farm and then, trying to brace himself for some twist, he slammed the door behind him and watched, exhaustion fogging his mind, the SUV drive off, as though Lionel had merely given him a lift rather than leaving so much of him and his life in pieces.
