There.
Jonathan straightened, sighing softly in relief. There, on the far end of the couch, was a tight bundle. Jonathan could barely see tousled black hair peeking over the edge of Martha's navy chenille couch throw. He laid the shotgun on the kitchen table and padded over to the couch, leaning over to make sure that it really was Clark.
The teenager was awake, eyes unfocused and gazing into the fire. He was curled into a tight ball on his side, taking up just less than half the couch space, with his head slightly propped on the couch arm. His face was a bit paler than normal, and there were shadows under his eyes; it could have been a trick of the light, but Jonathan could have sworn that Clark's eyes were rimmed with red.
"Son?" Jonathan whispered, eliciting no response. Starting to worry, Jonathan raised his volume just a bit. "Son?"
Clark jumped slightly, then looked up at his father, and it took a moment before he registered recognition. "D-dad. Hi. What are you doing up? Did I wake you up? I tried to be quiet." His whisper was a little slow, like he still hadn't fully re-entered reality. Jonathan had to shake off a sudden vision of his son rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.
"I was going to ask you the same thing. Why are you down here? Are you feeling okay? And don't worry, you were very quiet; your mother is still asleep. I just… felt something and came to make sure that everything was alright." Jonathan levered himself up onto the couch, scooting his son's feet out of the way
Clark's "Oh" was soft, groggy, and a little awed. He stared at the fire for a moment before shifting to a more or less upright position, turning slightly to look at his father. "You felt something? Did you think someone was breaking in? I tried to be careful moving around, but…"
Jonathan smiled slightly and laid a hand on Clark's shoulder, stilling the boy's apologetic babbling. "It's okay, Clark. No, I didn't think someone was breaking in. I actually felt like I needed to check on you. I needed to make sure that you were okay." His eyes flicked worriedly to his hand and back as he noticed that his son was trembling.
Clark cocked his head, looking at his father in surprise. "You... you sensed me? You sensed something was wrong with me? Really?"
Jonathan smiled again. "Son, let's review a few basic facts here. I'm a father. You're my kid. I have paternal instincts. You do the math. Now," Jon said, changing the subject as he slid his hand underneath the blanket to rest on Clark's back, feeling his son's heart pounding with exertion (just as his own still pounded), "why don't you tell me what's on your mind?"
Clark grimaced, unsure about opening up. He didn't want to bother his father with something that was so… stupid.
Jonathan saw Clark's hesitation, and his voice lowered, his tone carrying a firmness and an edge. "Clark, I'm sorry if this is uncomfortable for you, but I don't like the idea of something chewing at you; we've seen what happens when you bottle it all up inside. You have to let it out, you have to talk to us, and you can't lie to us about stuff that bothers you. We won't go through that again; we can't."
The teenager flushed and winced, feeling a flood of shame wash over him again. He might have let it carry him this time, but he could hear the love in his father's voice, could feel the tenderness and strength and reassurance of his father's hand on his back. It was more than that--there was what he could only describe as a hum in the air, a sort of vibration that he could almost see, faint and familiar, that came only at certain times and only with his father. He'd felt it from time to time when they'd been close like this, and once or twice when they'd been separated. The day his father had shot him, it had been present but increasingly off, creating an almost sickening dissonance that never reached his ears but played deep in his bones. The feeling had left when his father had passed out, and Clark realized that he hadn't felt totally better about it until it came again, in tune, when Clark had fallen ill; he didn't consciously notice the phenomenon until now, but thinking back, the return of the hum in its true form had convinced him that his father would do anything to protect him. The stillness of this night gave him the first chance to notice it, and to wonder if this was his equivalent of what, with most people, would be hairs at the back of the neck rising or the involuntary urge to turn when a certain person entered a room. The hum was there tonight, pure and clear, a feeling of security deep in his bones--or maybe in his soul. He wasn't entirely sure he had a soul or that it would be clean if he did, but he knew that this man sitting next to him would love him regardless. That overcame the shame, if not the remorse for his actions.
Clark looked down at his hands, fiddling with the place where the ring had been. "I… I had a dream. A nightmare. I was down in the caves, going through a bag of money and, I guess, stuff that I'd stolen, and I saw something move, so I looked up; I remember thinking it was probably you and that I was going to be grounded till the end of time. Anyway, it wasn't you--it was a baby--and somehow I knew it was your baby, the one… the one I made Mom lose. So there was this baby, and it started out looking like the dancing baby from the Internet, but then it started to change, see, and suddenly it looked like, well, like you, okay, and it was all cute and everything, but then, well, it opened its mouth and started to talk and…" Clark stopped and heaved a few breaths, visibly disturbed. Jonathan moved his hand, rubbing his son's back reassuringly as he waited.
"Well, anyway," Clark said even more quietly, "it started to talk, but the voice wasn't a baby's--it was Jor-El's voice. And it was mad. Furious. At me. Because if it hadn't been for me, the baby would have been born and would have taken its rightful place as the son of the Kents. It would have had everything I always had, and it would have made Mom and you happy in a way I never could; it would have been your real child. But I killed it. Twice. It said Mom was supposed to have it a long time ago, but then I came and the rocks made her not be pregnant. And then it happened again this May, when she was pregnant and she lost the baby because of my stupidity. It…" His voice got so soft that Jon had to strain to hear him over the subdued crackling of the fire. "It said that I robbed you of the chance to really love a child like you should, and that you could never have connected with me as father and son because I'm not… not right." He lowered his head in defeat. "It said I'm unnatural, a monster and a murderer. And it was right."
Jonathan straightened, sighing softly in relief. There, on the far end of the couch, was a tight bundle. Jonathan could barely see tousled black hair peeking over the edge of Martha's navy chenille couch throw. He laid the shotgun on the kitchen table and padded over to the couch, leaning over to make sure that it really was Clark.
The teenager was awake, eyes unfocused and gazing into the fire. He was curled into a tight ball on his side, taking up just less than half the couch space, with his head slightly propped on the couch arm. His face was a bit paler than normal, and there were shadows under his eyes; it could have been a trick of the light, but Jonathan could have sworn that Clark's eyes were rimmed with red.
"Son?" Jonathan whispered, eliciting no response. Starting to worry, Jonathan raised his volume just a bit. "Son?"
Clark jumped slightly, then looked up at his father, and it took a moment before he registered recognition. "D-dad. Hi. What are you doing up? Did I wake you up? I tried to be quiet." His whisper was a little slow, like he still hadn't fully re-entered reality. Jonathan had to shake off a sudden vision of his son rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.
"I was going to ask you the same thing. Why are you down here? Are you feeling okay? And don't worry, you were very quiet; your mother is still asleep. I just… felt something and came to make sure that everything was alright." Jonathan levered himself up onto the couch, scooting his son's feet out of the way
Clark's "Oh" was soft, groggy, and a little awed. He stared at the fire for a moment before shifting to a more or less upright position, turning slightly to look at his father. "You felt something? Did you think someone was breaking in? I tried to be careful moving around, but…"
Jonathan smiled slightly and laid a hand on Clark's shoulder, stilling the boy's apologetic babbling. "It's okay, Clark. No, I didn't think someone was breaking in. I actually felt like I needed to check on you. I needed to make sure that you were okay." His eyes flicked worriedly to his hand and back as he noticed that his son was trembling.
Clark cocked his head, looking at his father in surprise. "You... you sensed me? You sensed something was wrong with me? Really?"
Jonathan smiled again. "Son, let's review a few basic facts here. I'm a father. You're my kid. I have paternal instincts. You do the math. Now," Jon said, changing the subject as he slid his hand underneath the blanket to rest on Clark's back, feeling his son's heart pounding with exertion (just as his own still pounded), "why don't you tell me what's on your mind?"
Clark grimaced, unsure about opening up. He didn't want to bother his father with something that was so… stupid.
Jonathan saw Clark's hesitation, and his voice lowered, his tone carrying a firmness and an edge. "Clark, I'm sorry if this is uncomfortable for you, but I don't like the idea of something chewing at you; we've seen what happens when you bottle it all up inside. You have to let it out, you have to talk to us, and you can't lie to us about stuff that bothers you. We won't go through that again; we can't."
The teenager flushed and winced, feeling a flood of shame wash over him again. He might have let it carry him this time, but he could hear the love in his father's voice, could feel the tenderness and strength and reassurance of his father's hand on his back. It was more than that--there was what he could only describe as a hum in the air, a sort of vibration that he could almost see, faint and familiar, that came only at certain times and only with his father. He'd felt it from time to time when they'd been close like this, and once or twice when they'd been separated. The day his father had shot him, it had been present but increasingly off, creating an almost sickening dissonance that never reached his ears but played deep in his bones. The feeling had left when his father had passed out, and Clark realized that he hadn't felt totally better about it until it came again, in tune, when Clark had fallen ill; he didn't consciously notice the phenomenon until now, but thinking back, the return of the hum in its true form had convinced him that his father would do anything to protect him. The stillness of this night gave him the first chance to notice it, and to wonder if this was his equivalent of what, with most people, would be hairs at the back of the neck rising or the involuntary urge to turn when a certain person entered a room. The hum was there tonight, pure and clear, a feeling of security deep in his bones--or maybe in his soul. He wasn't entirely sure he had a soul or that it would be clean if he did, but he knew that this man sitting next to him would love him regardless. That overcame the shame, if not the remorse for his actions.
Clark looked down at his hands, fiddling with the place where the ring had been. "I… I had a dream. A nightmare. I was down in the caves, going through a bag of money and, I guess, stuff that I'd stolen, and I saw something move, so I looked up; I remember thinking it was probably you and that I was going to be grounded till the end of time. Anyway, it wasn't you--it was a baby--and somehow I knew it was your baby, the one… the one I made Mom lose. So there was this baby, and it started out looking like the dancing baby from the Internet, but then it started to change, see, and suddenly it looked like, well, like you, okay, and it was all cute and everything, but then, well, it opened its mouth and started to talk and…" Clark stopped and heaved a few breaths, visibly disturbed. Jonathan moved his hand, rubbing his son's back reassuringly as he waited.
"Well, anyway," Clark said even more quietly, "it started to talk, but the voice wasn't a baby's--it was Jor-El's voice. And it was mad. Furious. At me. Because if it hadn't been for me, the baby would have been born and would have taken its rightful place as the son of the Kents. It would have had everything I always had, and it would have made Mom and you happy in a way I never could; it would have been your real child. But I killed it. Twice. It said Mom was supposed to have it a long time ago, but then I came and the rocks made her not be pregnant. And then it happened again this May, when she was pregnant and she lost the baby because of my stupidity. It…" His voice got so soft that Jon had to strain to hear him over the subdued crackling of the fire. "It said that I robbed you of the chance to really love a child like you should, and that you could never have connected with me as father and son because I'm not… not right." He lowered his head in defeat. "It said I'm unnatural, a monster and a murderer. And it was right."