A/N: Direct quotes from 1x21, Tempest, and 2x1, Vortex. I do not own.

Chapter 13 - Storms

"I'll bury you and everyone in Smallville who takes your side!"

That was the last thing Lex's father said before the storm outside shattered the window and wrenched Lex away from his father's vice grip. Lex didn't see much of what happened next, until he was beneath a pile of collapsed furniture. His head throbbed, and warm, salty blood flowed from his forehead and into his right eye. He struggled his way out of the debris, blinking away the blood, and that's when he saw him.

His father, pinned beneath a fallen column, a sharp section of broken ceiling posed to stab through him.

"Lex! Help me, Lex!"

The pain in Lex's forehead died immediately. He felt nothing but immobility, and in that moment, he could only stand and stare.

Then the voice spoke:

"Let him die."

Even frozen as he was, the suggestion startled him. He could never do that . . . could he?

It would be easier. God knew, it would be easier. He could save 2500 families from losing their income, and secure them for the future. He could put an end to the dangerous and immoral experiments his father was carrying out, and take over LuthorCorp. He could lead with strength and justice. He'd make his mother proud. He'd make the Kents proud.

"No one will know."

No one would even suspect. Even if anyone knew, how could they blame him? Hadn't his father just promised to destroy him and everyone he cared about? Wouldn't saving him be the greater evil? One life ended, and he could save so many. He wouldn't even have to kill.

"You'd be free."

Free from the abuse. From the berating. From . . .

No.

He'd never be free if he let his father die. No one would know, but he would know, and it would destroy him. It was already destroying him.

He couldn't stand by. He took the fateful step toward his father.

"No! You can't save him now! He's already seen you hesitate! He'll kill you!"

But Lex was already lifting the column and pulling his father out and away from danger.

Another gust shook the house, and another shower of debris rained down on them.

A year of knowing that Clark spent most of his time risking his life for his friends had prepared Martha to remain stoic in this moment. The moment in the aftermath of the storm, when the rescue teams told her that Jonathan hadn't been found.

Despite the terror of losing him, and the jagged spikes of pain slicing through her, she buried herself in work, helping the living. She knew it would appear as strength to those around her, but of course, nothing could be further from the truth. It was merely her only way to cope.

News flooded in throughout the day. Dead bodies were found, none of them Jonathan. Live victims were rescued from inside garages and under debris, none of them Jonathan. Lionel Luthor had been hospitalized, and if she'd heard correctly, Lex was mildly injured as well—she would check in on him when things settled down. She spoke to tens, hundreds of people over the phone lines, speaking words of comfort in the midst of chaos.

Clark blamed himself for his father endangering himself, and Martha did the best she could to console him. Even Lana Lang confided in Martha, since the disaster brought both of them flashbacks of the meteor shower thirteen years ago.

The panic and turmoil didn't break Martha, not then and not now. They only brought out her deepest maternal instincts. On that day, thirteen years ago, she'd found Clark.

Even if fear had been enough to paralyze her, it wouldn't have done so today. She knew Jonathan was alive—she couldn't help but believe it with her whole being. Instead of worrying about whether he was alive, she focused on the serious talk she'd be having with him later about where keeping Clark's secret fell in terms of their family's priorities. It had been their primary concern for so long, and for good reason, but it wasn't worth any of their lives. For that matter, it wasn't worth anyone's life. The last thing she wanted was for Clark to think, someday, that he should put himself or anyone else in danger for the sake of keeping his secret.

Immediately after regaining consciousness at the hospital, Lex's father called Lex out on his hesitation to save him. The crippling guilt at his father's words was only the start of the reckoning.

Before the storm, Nixon had gone after the Kents. Lex's ever-growing threats to stay away from them had apparently had no effect. Nixon and Mr. Kent had fought during the storm, and they'd both gone missing. Lex helped Clark search for his father, even confided in him about his hesitation in saving his father.

But Clark had figured out all too quickly that Lex was connected with Nixon. When Clark asked whether Lex had come along to help find Clark's father, or to find Nixon, Lex couldn't answer right away.

It wasn't exactly that he doubted his own motives in helping Clark. It was the weight of knowing this whole situation was his fault. If he'd never asked Nixon to investigate the Kents in the first place, they wouldn't be in this mess, and Mr. Kent would be safe.

But Clark misinterpreted Lex's silence, and he said the words that had driven daggers through Lex's heart: "That's the second time you hesitated today, Lex. I'm starting to wonder if what my dad said about you is true."

Lex knew Clark didn't mean to strike him where he'd be most sensitive. Usually, the darkness in him shrank away when Clark was around, so Clark never saw it. Today, he'd pulled back the curtain just the tiniest bit.

It had taken quite a lot of trust for Lex to tell Clark about what happened with his father, and Clark had shattered that trust without a thought, but he couldn't be angry with Clark. The kid was tired and scared, and Lex had broken Clark's trust as well. Still, that didn't make the crushing pain any more bearable.

Ultimately, they'd found Clark's father—he and Nixon had been trapped, and just managed to free themselves. Then, just as Lex had approached him from behind, Nixon had tried to hurt Mr. Kent, and something in Lex had taken over. He didn't know if it was that dark inner voice having its way, or some deeper, more heroic strength.

Whatever it was, Lex shot Nixon. Shot him dead.

The world went quiet.

For just a moment, Lex caught a vision. A memory, a premonition, a destiny—whatever it was, it filled his entire mind for a moment. He saw himself killing again. Over, and over, and over again, and not to save someone's life. Killing for control, for joy.

The "voice" didn't speak in response to the vision. It didn't even laugh. It merely felt—power, euphoria, ecstasy. And for a split second, it wasn't a voice in his head; it wasn't a part of him; it was him.

In the moment before it disappeared back into the well-hidden recesses of the overpowering darkness in his soul, it whispered one last promise:

"I will DEVOUR you."

The words still echoed in in his mind, the rest of his memories a blur. He couldn't remember much about the drive over. He vaguely remembered Mr. Kent thanking him for saving his life—a strained gratitude, like he still knew the truth of who and what Lex really was.

Then, if all of that hadn't been enough, Lex had found out his father was blinded because Lex had called for surgery too soon.

Sitting in his car outside the still-crowded hospital, he wanted to give up on everything else he was working for. His father's injury would certainly make taking back the plant easier, though Lex struggled to fathom how he could carry out that fight after everything that had happened. The octagonal disk he'd found in the field was also still missing, and he couldn't help but feel like it would be the key to understanding the overwhelming mess that was his entire life, but right now he was too tired to even think about looking for it.

But he had to keep fighting. As long as he was alive, he didn't have a choice.

Of course, he could always just end it all. His death would be a favor to the world. Like his father's would have been.

A tap on his window snapped him out of his thoughts. "Lex?"

He rolled down the window, forcing himself to look up at her. "Everything okay, Mrs. Kent?"

"That's what I'm here to ask you."

"How did you know I would be here?"

"I heard about your father."

He swallowed hard, looking away. "He's blind."

"Oh, Lex. I'm so sorry. How are you?"

"I'm fine."

She reached through the window and squeezed his shoulder. "I wish you wouldn't lie to me."

Her reprimand was a mild sting over top of the raw shame he already felt for everything else, but he still felt it. "I made the wrong call. I sent him into surgery too soon."

"You couldn't have known. It's not your fault, Lex—"

Something in him snapped. He slammed his fist on the steering wheel and shouted, "Don't tell me it's not my fault!"

She said nothing for a long moment. He could swear his heartbeat was louder than his yell had just been.

"I—I'm so sorry, Mrs. Kent . . . I'm so sorry . . ."

Mrs. Kent took a step back from the car. "Lex, you're not going back to the mansion alone. You're going to spend the night at our place."

"I couldn't possibly—"

"I'm not asking."

He flinched. Her voice was as harsh as he'd ever heard it.

Cold numbness washed over his limbs as he felt himself getting out of the car. His father's berating had stung enough, and Clark's accusations from earlier still smarted more than he thought possible. He didn't think he could take her scolding as well. His whole body tensed, like he was expecting to be beaten.

As if cringing would protect him from the words. He'd have taken blows over words any day.

She reached an arm out, and he flinched, but she just wrapped it firmly around him from the side. He put his arm around her shoulder as well, and she walked him from his car to hers.

No. This was all wrong. Impossibly wrong. She should be angry with him, she should hate him. Everyone else did. The darkness inside himself had been on full display today—couldn't she see it? Couldn't everyone?

"It's okay, sweetie, it's okay. I've got you."

His heart seemed to collapse in on itself. Whatever he had thought her scolding would feel like, her gentleness—and the acute knowledge that he didn't, couldn't deserve it—hurt a thousand times more. He felt as though his insides were literally set on fire.

His knees locked up on him for a second. Her grip on him was firm, and he didn't fall, but he also couldn't let her take care of him like this anymore either.

It was his fault that Jonathan had almost died. His fault Clark had spent the night out looking for him, and Martha worrying about him. His fault Nixon was dead and Lex's father was blind, and 2500 people fired, and an entire town's economy collapsing. His fault the Kents had been in danger, and his fault that Martha wasn't home now with the family she had almost lost . . .

"Mrs. Kent, I—I messed up, you shouldn't . . ."

Her gentle hand rubbed his back. "I still love you. So does Clark."

The darkness inside—now more like a living creature, a broken-off piece of his soul—raged and screamed within him, and he could feel its searing agony. Could feel the burning—oh, it burned!

She had to stop. She couldn't keep caring for him like this. He didn't deserve it, he didn't belong in her embrace, and knowing that would be his undoing.

He could make her stop. He had to make her stop.

He would confess. He'd tell her everything. Then she wouldn't love him anymore, and the intolerable burning would stop.