Chapter Twelve

Turning his head against the pillow, Chris glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand. The glowing green numbers read 2:14 am.

Groaning softly, he reached over to turn on the lamp. He was so tired, he couldn't see straight. But, every time he closed his eyes, he got that feeling. He didn't want to call it panic. More like mild anxiety…that made it hard to breathe, and had his heart trying to pound out of his chest. During the day, he'd been so busy, it was easier to repress. But at night, with the house quiet and still, his mind was free to think and worry.

Tonight, after the Kents went to bed, he paid another visit to the "spot" where he'd arrived. But while he found that orbing that far was a little easier—it still left him tired, but not completely drained—this trip hadn't been any more helpful than the last one. He'd tried every spell he knew that might re-open that doorway. Or even help him communicate with his family. But, again, nothing worked.

Sighing, Chris opened the nightstand drawer and pulled out the notebook he bought at the thrift store, a deal at 25 cents. He bought it with the idea of working on some new spells. Without the Book of Shadows, it was the best he could do.

Chris sat up in bed and leaned against the headboard. As he doodled, waiting for inspiration to strike, he explored his options. Truth was, there weren't many. Trying new spells where he knew the portal was, hoping one would work, was about all he could come up with. Well, he'd thought about contacting this dimension's version of his family. But, considering how magic worked here, he doubted they'd have the power to help him. They probably weren't even witches here.

As he drew some squiggly lines on the paper, his thoughts turned to the Kents. They were, as Aunt Paige would say, good people. They didn't really know him, yet they'd taken him in, saved him from sleeping in cornfields, dining on junk food, and taking baths in the nearest, probably ice-cold, river. Thanks to them, where he was going to sleep, and what he was going to eat, were two less things he had to worry about.

Plus, he liked Clark. Chris had missed having a guy to just hang out with. He hadn't really had that since Wyatt turned. In the present, he was too busy hunting demons to make friends. And, in the future, those he met who were around his own were usually too busy struggling to survive to want to pal around.

Anyway, as much as the Kents seemed to be a gift from above (and Chris glanced up at the ceiling, wondering if the Elders existed in this dimension) it wasn't like they could help him with his biggest problem. So he'd decided not to bother them with it. Why make them worry about something they couldn't do anything about?

And, there it was. Few options. No real plan. He sure wouldn't put money on his chances of getting home.

Still, he had to believe there was a way. And he wouldn't stop looking for it. 'Quitter' just wasn't a word in Chris Halliwell's vocabulary. Besides, if his family was looking for him—and he was 110% sure they were—that upped his odds.

Yawning, Chris put pen to paper and got to work on a new spell.


It took Clark a few of days to realize something was wrong with Chris.

It wasn't anything big or obvious. In fact, Chris acted like everything was fine. He helped around the farm and the house, ran errands, helped Clark with after school chores. He cracked jokes, laughed, talked freely at the dinner table. If being stuck in the wrong dimension bothered him, he didn't let it show.

But Clark was starting to notice things. There were shadows under Chris's eyes, like he wasn't getting much sleep. And, once or twice, Clark caught him staring off into space, green eyes dark with worry.

Clark noticed something else. Chris never mentioned his situation. Since that first night, he hadn't said a single word about being trapped in another dimension, or trying to find a way home. Which was strange because, in Chris's shoes, Clark figured he wouldn't be able to think of anything else. So, Chris probably was worried about it. He was just keeping it all bottled up inside.

Clark knew first hand what that could do to a person. So, on Thursday night, he went looking for Chris, hoping he could get him to talk.

He found Chris in the loft, stretched out on the sofa, scribbling in a notebook.

"Hey," Clark said to get his attention.

Startled, Chris glanced up. "Uh, hey." Closing the notebook, he sat up and placed his feet on the floor. "What's up?" he asked, pushing his shaggy brown hair out of his eyes.

"Dinner's almost ready. Mom should be calling us in a few minutes."

"Cool. I can always eat."

"I noticed," Clark grinned. Considering how slender Chris was, it was amazing how much he could put away.

"Now you sound like my Aunt Paige," Chris said. Then, he frowned thoughtfully. "And Aunt Phoebe. And Mom and Dad. And I think my entire family thinks I'm a pig."

Laughing, Clark sat down on the sofa. "Join the club. According to my mom, the day I snuck into the kitchen, scarfed down a dozen freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, and told her I was still hungry, she knew she was in trouble." Then, glancing down at the notebook, he said casually, "So, what are you doing? Working on ways to get home?"

"Uh, yeah." Looking uneasy, he laid a protective hand atop the notebook. "I'm not having much luck, though."

"Is there anything I can do?"

Chris gave him a doubtful look. "I really don't think so."

Clark felt a little insulted. "Hey, you never know. Maybe if we talked about it, bounced some ideas around…"

Chris shook his head. "I don't think talking will do much good."

"Still, maybe I could help."

"What? Your family have a stray dimensional doorway opener laying around?"

"Well, no. But…"

"Then don't worry about it, Clark. Really. I'll figure something out."

Clark frowned. He wasn't used to people turning down his help. In fact, he was usually the one doing the turning down.

"So," Chris said, "I heard your folks talking about going out on a date?"

Clark rolled his eyes. He knew an attempt to change the subject when he heard one. In fact, he was usually the one doing that, too. Still, since Chris didn't want to talk about the other thing, Clark decided to play along. "Yeah. It's something they do every so often. I think they're trying to keep the romance in their relationship." And Clark shuddered a little. Having parents who were so obviously in love was great. But thinking of them as 'romantic' could was a little disturbing.

Chris's smile was wistful. And there was a hint of sadness to it. "My parents used to do that. My dad's, uh, job kept him away from home a lot. I mean, like, months at a time. So much, they actually separated a few times. Not because they didn't love each other," Chris rushed to add. "But Mom didn't want Dad to feel guilty about not being around for her. And Dad wanted Mom to be able to move on and have some kind of life, even if it wasn't with him."

Clark's heart sank in sympathy. The thought of his own parents not being together was more than disturbing. He didn't even want to imagine it. "But your parents are back together now, right?"

Chris kind of winced. "Well, it's complicated. But they did decide that they loved each other, long absences or not. So, whenever Dad got a break from his work, they'd do that whole 'candlelit dinners/picnics in the park/walks on the beach' thing."

And, even though Clark had never met Chris's parents, he felt oddly relieved.

"Anyway,"—Chris shook his head, as if to shake off unpleasant thoughts—"since it's just the two of us tomorrow night, what do you want to do?"

"How about, tomorrow afternoon, we drop by the Talon."

"The Talon?"

"Yeah. It's a coffee house in town. Lex owns it, along with one of my other friends. It's been closed for repairs all week, which is why I haven't taken you there sooner. And you just don't come to Smallville and not drop by the Talon."

"And who am I to break the rules," Chris said, with a little smirk that said breaking the rules wasn't a real problem for him. "But tell me something. They got stuff besides coffee at this coffee house?"

Clark, rolled his eyes, this time good-naturedly. "Yes, they have food too. In fact, some of the best cakes and pies in town, courtesy of my mom."

"Then I'm there."


Friday turned out to be a slow work day on the Kent farm. When Jonathan left to pick up a delivery, hw pretty much gave Chris the rest of the day off. So, now, he was sitting at the kitchen table, writing in his spell book. According to the clock, Clark was out of school by now. Once he got home, they'd be leaving for that Talon place.

At the moment, Chris was wondering if he should try a potion to boost his spells. But potions could be tricky. He didn't have the Book of Shadows, so would have to rely on memory and guesswork to decide what and how much of each ingredient to add. And where was he going to get burdock root, or powdered unicorn horn (from a horn that had been lost naturally, of course) in Smallville, Kansas?

"That's very pretty," a voice suddenly said from behind him.

Startled, Chris nearly leaped out of his seat. As he realized Martha Kent was glancing over his shoulder, he had to resist the urge to slam the notebook shut. That would really make her suspicious.

"I didn't know you wrote poetry, Chris," she continued, moving over to the sink.

"Uh, it's a hobby I picked up," Chris said, wondering how much of his 'poetry' she'd read. She must have just glanced at a rhyme or two because, otherwise, she'd definitely have some questions.

"I used to write a little poetry," Martha said. "It was terrible, but I loved doing it."

Smiling noncommittally, Chris picked up the pen.

And, like yesterday, he was filled with emotions that weren't his own. But, there was flashes of blinding light, or ice needles stabbing at his brain. He just felt fear, and dread. Determination, and guilt.

Frowning, he stared at the pen. It wasn't his. Last night, when he took the notebook to Clark's loft, he realized he didn't have anything to write with. He'd been glad to see the pen lying on the table.

But the pen wasn't Clark's. Chris was sure these feelings weren't coming from him. They were coming from someone else. Someone in trouble.

Frowning, Chris took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and tried to sense where the feelings were coming from. And he found the origin pretty easily. Well, he didn't know where exactly, as in a street address. But, wherever it was, he'd have no problem getting there.

Urgently, he stood up, almost knocking the chair over.

Martha turned to look at him. "Chris?"

"Uh, I can't really explain right now, but I have to go." And, without further explanation, he orbed.

Martha stared, mouth hanging open. She'd never seen Chris teleport. Not from the 'outside', anyway.

Alicia's teleporting had been violent, even fierce, in a way. Like she was ripping a hole in the air itself. And she left a sickly green, Kryptonite haze in her wake.

But Chris's teleporting—orbing—was beautiful. In the blink of an eye, he became a column of sparkling, neon blue lights. The familiar sound of light trying to sing filled her kitchen. And, as the column of lights drifted towards the ceiling, they faded away.

Martha considered herself an intelligent, articulate woman. But, in that moment, the only thing she could think of to say was, "Wow."

(TO BE CONTINUED)