Chapter 2 - Sympathy

Convincing Jonathan to have a Luthor at their dinner table would have been impossible if Martha had bothered to try. She didn't. She simply marched Lex over to him, informed Jonathan of her invitation, and continued walking toward the car.

Jonathan tripped over his words several times as he stumbled to follow them, but Martha only gave him a glare and gave Lex's arm a quick squeeze.

Clark was waiting for them at the car. "Pete and Chloe already went home, and Lana is with Whitney at the hospital."

Martha nodded. "Lex is joining us for dinner tonight," she said.

Clark beamed, then his smile faded as he glanced warily at Jonathan. Jonathan didn't meet his gaze, but simply trudged over to the driver side door and slid into the car. He reached across to unlock the passenger door for Martha, but he didn't open it for her like he usually did.

Martha bit back a sigh and opened the door for Lex before she settled into her own seat. She adjusted the rearview mirror so she could see his face. He stared out the window at the military vehicles driving away, elbow braced against the windowsill, palm pressed to the back of his neck.

Jonathan abruptly shifted the mirror back into its original position and sped away.

Martha shot him a quick glare before forcing herself to relax and glancing back at Clark, who smiled back at her. "Clark, we didn't get to see much of what was going on inside on the monitor. Would you mind telling us again what happened in there?"

"Well, I didn't really see how it started. I'd run off to try to find level 3, and the next thing I know, they're evacuating the plant. I managed to get back to the room where he had everyone so I could show him the blueprints, but he wasn't listening to me. Then you know what happened after that—Earl broke the gas pipe, so the building was filling up with methane, and then Whitney got hurt, and I was starting to think I wasn't going to be able to stop Earl—"

"And that's when Lex arrived?" She turned to look over at Lex, but he continued to stare out of the window, still gripping his neck, his sightline only flicking over to meet hers for a half second.

"Yeah. You should have seen him, Mom. He didn't even look scared. He comes in, takes off the vest, and starts telling Earl that Lionel doesn't care about him. He tells him to let us all go, and he'd tell him where Level 3 was. And he didn't even know where it was!"

"That was very brave. Wasn't it, Jonathan?"

Jonathan only grunted.

Martha sighed. She'd have to talk with him later. It was one thing for him to take his anger for Lionel out on Lex in private; it was another to be rude to him in person, especially after he'd saved their son's life. "What did Earl say when you told him the truth, Lex?"

Lex blinked and met her eyes, though his gaze was distant. "He wasn't happy."

"Did he hurt you?"

"I walked out of there just fine, so what do you think?"

She gave him the look she gave to Clark when he was disrespectful to her, the face he could never lie to. "I think I asked you a question, young man."

His jaw pulsed. "Not really. I mean, getting pistol whipped in the head wasn't exactly fun—"

"In the head!" Martha cried.

"I think I heard that over the intercom," Clark said.

"No, you heard me getting shoved onto—" Lex's voice stopped suddenly, his face turning bright red.

Martha's teeth clenched. She hadn't realized Earl had gone so far off the deep end. She'd need to check for concussion as soon as they got back to the house. No wonder Lex kept rubbing his neck—he was probably suffering from whiplash. And if he'd been about to say that he'd been shoved to the floor, his hands would probably be torn up as well, in addition to any damage they'd faced when he was dangling from the catwalk.

She couldn't believe she'd almost allowed Jonathan to convince her not to check in on Lex. An army of servants would do Lex no good if he wouldn't confide his injuries to any of them. Based on his embarrassment now, she couldn't imagine him having been willing to do so.

Lex fidgeted in the hard wooden chair at the Kents' dinner table, reminding himself not to grip the back of his head anymore. Mr. Kent and Clark had gone outside to finish some chores they'd been kept from because of the day's events. Mrs. Kent was busy at the kitchen counter. He'd offered to help, but she'd told him to sit and relax.

She slid a large glass dish into the oven, then came to sit across from him at the table, her eyes piercing his. "Did a medic talk to you after you came out of the building?"

"There was no need."

"Not even to check for concussion?"

He swallowed. "I'm fine, Mrs. Kent."

"Lex, I need you to answer my questions honestly. Can you do that?"

He wasn't usually honest about his wellbeing—his father had ingrained in him that complaining about his injuries was weakness. But his father wasn't here, and judging by Clark, the Kents didn't seem to live by the same rules as the Luthors. Lex nodded, then barely suppressed a wince at the shooting pain in his neck.

"Did you black out after the gun hit you?"

"No. Well, maybe for a second. I'm not sure."

"You're not sure?" She frowned. "You didn't pass out, though."

"No. I fell, and Earl had to lift me back onto my feet. Even if I did black out, I was awake." In that moment of agony, he had wished he wasn't.

"Any dizziness or nausea?"

"Not now. Then . . ." He had felt quite sick, but he'd been feeling that from the moment he set foot in the plant knowing his life was probably over. Despite Mrs. Kent's kindness, he wasn't willing to admit he'd been quite that afraid. "Maybe a little dizziness."

"Ears ringing at all?"

"A little, for a few seconds."

"How about now? How's the headache?"

He shrugged. "I've had worse."

"On a scale from one to ten, where ten is the worst you can imagine?"

"Um . . ." He thought back over the injuries he'd had over his life. Blows he'd taken from bullies in school, beatings from his father. Those had all damaged him more emotionally than physically. Compared to any of them, this was no higher than a one or two. But he knew she only meant the physical component. "Three?"

She gave him an incredulous look. "Fine then, don't think of ten as the worst pain imaginable. Think of it as the worst pain you've felt in your life."

Worst physical pain, he translated in his mind. "Six or seven, then," he said. "Maybe an eight when the gun first hit me."

She nodded. "Possibly a mild concussion, but probably not severe. I still think you should see a doctor tomorrow. May I see your hands?"

Lex hesitated for a moment, but he held them out. She turned them palms up and gently ran her fingers over the scraped skin. It reignited the heat, just a little, but it was more comforting than painful.

She stood and walked over to the kitchen sink, kneeling down beneath it to pull out a small first aid kit.

Lex stood, his chair pushing back. "Look, I appreciate what you're trying to do, but—"

"Sit."

Slowly, he did, though his heart pounded. She was trying to look after him, coddle him like he was a child. Allowing her to do so would show the exact kind of weakness and vulnerability that his father always warned him against.

"Hands."

"Mrs. Kent—"

"This won't hurt."

His face felt hot. That's what she thought he was afraid of! He glanced toward the door, then back at her, and finally held out his hands, palms up.

"Thank you." She took a little paper pouch from the first aid kit, ripping it open and slipping out a cleansing wipe. "I'd use a disinfectant if the scrapes were any deeper, but it would sting. This won't."

He let his eyes fall closed as her fingers worked the gentle solution into his palms, mild pain and relief intermingling at the surface of his skin until she finally released her hold and there was only the coolness.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?"

He said nothing, taking his hands back and settling them on the table in front of himself.

She sealed back up the first aid kit and set it aside, standing and walking over to the freezer. She took out a bag of frozen peas, wrapped it in a dish towel hanging from the oven, and returned to the kitchen table.

Lex held out his hand to take the makeshift ice pack, but she gestured to his head. He grimaced, but allowed her to press the ice onto the knot where Earl had hit him.

He hissed in pain as, for just a moment, the pressure reintensified the throbbing. Then, as the cold numbness spread, he took deep, slow breaths.

Mrs. Kent rested a hand on his shoulder, and he took the ice pack from her, holding it in place himself.

"Any better?" she asked.

Something about the way she said it caused his mind to flash back. He was seven, and he'd scraped up his knee playing outside with some friends. His parents had been out for the day, and his nanny, Pamela, had been the one to scoop him into her arms and hold him while he cried. She'd sat him down on the bathroom counter, where she'd cleaned and iced the wounds.

Any better? she'd asked, and he'd nodded and thrown his arms around her.

Then she'd left him. When his mother died, only a few months after Julian, and he'd needed her the most, she'd left. She made him believe that she loved him, but she'd only been doing it for the money.

Lex could feel his pulse pounding in his ears as he looked up at Mrs. Kent. He lowered the ice and set it on the table. "What do you want?"

"I—I don't know what you mean."

"Why are you doing all of this? Did someone send you?"

"No, I'm just trying to help you. Lex, are you alright?"

"You have no reason to help me. I know your husband hates me."

"No, Lex. He doesn't hate you."

"Maybe not, but I know what your family thinks of mine."

"And Clark?"

Lex fell silent. Clark had saved his life twice already. That should have been enough to cause him suspicion, but he couldn't bring himself to believe Clark had done it with ulterior motives. Not that he wasn't suspicious of Clark—he was certainly a mystery, and he definitely wasn't telling the truth about what had happened the day he'd first saved Lex's life on that bridge.

But against everything he'd been taught, Lex trusted that Clark was his friend. Still, that didn't help him to trust Mrs. Kent. He knew she would side with her husband, given the choice, and he couldn't blame her for that, especially given the way the tabloids dragged the Luthor name through the mud.

"I should go," Lex said finally. "I don't know what you want from me, but I'm sure Mr. Kent doesn't want me here."

"Lex, Jonathan's having a hard time admitting it, but you saved a lot of lives today. I don't want anything from you; this town owes you a debt of gratitude. I saw the way your father was treating you after you came out of the building, and I saw the look on your face."

He stiffened at the mention of his father. "I don't need your sympathy," he spat.

"Fine, then I'll say it another way. You're Clark's friend. Any friend of Clark's is welcome in our home and at our table. It's no trouble at all. He's happy to have you here, and so am I."

"And tending to me like I'm an invalid? You do that for all of Clark's friends, too?"

She scoffed. "Sure, if they need it. You're not an invalid, but you were in pain. I cleaned your hands and gave you an ice pack. It was the least a decent person could do."

He breathed in to retort, but realized she was probably right—he was overreacting. Why was he reading so much into this? Was it really so hard to believe that someone could be kind to him without wanting something in return?

Well, yes. It was hard to believe. But he believed it about Clark, and this was Clark's mother.

Lex had once read somewhere that concussions could cause erratic behavior; he wondered if his sudden paranoia was a side effect of the injury. Either way, it had been a long time since anyone had noticed his pain, let alone tried to relieve it.

He wanted to apologize for his outburst, but found that apologizing wasn't something he knew how to do anymore. He thought instead to thank her for her kindness, but it felt weird to do that without first apologizing.

So he didn't say anything. Instead, he just quietly picked up the ice pack and replaced it on the back of his head. She smiled, gave his shoulder a quick squeeze, and returned to the kitchen counter to continue prepping for dinner.