A/N: This takes place during 2x9, Dichotic. I'm using some direct quotes. I own nothing.

Chapter 21 - Bad day

Between the long hours Lex spent helping Clark find a brain specialist for his friend Ryan, dealing the fallout from his own kidnapping the week before, the endless daily arguments he was having with his father, and setting up his Room of Obsession to appease his inner darkness, Lex found himself falling behind in his work at the plant. For a few days, he ended up canceling all appointments and asking security to keep out all visitors just so that he could get some work done before the charity auction.

The night terrors were especially bad the night before the event.

Lex had had night terrors on and off throughout his life, ever since Julian's death. Thankfully, he had never had them while staying with the Kents. He wondered if his friendship with the Kents would have decreased their frequency, if not for the sheer number of near-death experiences and concussions he'd had over the past year and a half.

He woke up with as painful a headache as he'd ever had, other than on mornings following a concussion. It pounded continuously despite his overdose of painkillers, so after he got dressed and ready for the charity auction, he allowed himself a few minutes to rest his eyes.

The next thing he knew, he was waking up. Almost an hour had passed. The pain in his head reignited, worse than before the painkillers, as his heart pounded while he hurried out of the door.

In principle, he wanted to be at the charity auction. It was something his father would only do for good PR, but at some point in the past few years, Lex had started caring about the causes represented. Mr. and Mrs. Kent had listened with quite a lot of interest when Lex had talked to them about the event a couple of days before, and had said in so many words that they were proud of him.

The only problem was that most of the people who attended the auction would only be doing so for the PR—and it would be painfully obvious that that was the only reason they were there. But skipping the event and making a quiet, anonymous contribution from the comfort of the mansion would spur an argument with his father that he didn't want to have, so he was going.

He stopped by the Talon on the way out. He'd told Lana he would, and seeing her was always a breath of fresh air. It was a comfort to remember that at least one of his business partners cared more about goodness and honesty than making a profit regardless of what it took. He needed that, no matter how late he was running.

But he'd misremembered Lana's schedule. She didn't have a free period from school today—that was tomorrow. It was disappointing, but made his visit quicker. He was in and out of the Talon in five minutes.

Lex fielded angry phone calls on the way back to his car, his head pounding harder than ever.

Then he spotted a meter maid beside his car.

He didn't have time to deal with the ticket. It wasn't about the money—it was about the time, and his pride, and the principle of the thing. Lex argued, until the man made some comment about how some people "actually work for a living."

That's when Lex lost it. Next thing he knew, he was smashing the windows of the meter maid's car with a golf club.

The outburst felt so out of character for him. Not necessarily the part where he took out his anger on someone—he did that all the time—but the part where his temper ran hot instead of cold. Normally, he dealt mercilessly with people who threatened him or people he cared, but he did it about much more indirectly, through threats, blackmail, and clever manipulation. Blackmail was somehow both dirtier and cleaner than resorting to vandalism.

Driving away from the scene, Lex knew he was in trouble. They probably wouldn't give him any jail time, but a judge would probably know that fining him was a useless response—maybe he'd get community service. He didn't know if he could stand that kind of humiliation, even if it was deserved.

His cell phone started to buzz a few minutes later. His father somehow already knew about the incident. He started ranting and yelling about how bad it would be for their family's image, what a disappointment Lex was, all the usual fare. That kind of scolding barely stung anymore. Lex was only half paying attention when his father let something slip about how he was struggling to get work done because his assistant had left early to go to the hospital.

"Wait, you mean Mrs. Kent? Is she okay?"

"Oh, she's fine. Apparently her husband broke his leg doing some farm work."

Lex hung up—he'd take the punishment for that later—and pulled over to the side of the road. He dialed another number.

"Change of plans," Lex said. "I'm not going to make it to the auction after all."

From inside the hospital examination room, where Jonathan struggled to gather his things while stubbornly refusing help, Martha overheard Lex unwittingly insult Dr. Bryce by offering her the phone number of a specialist in Metropolis. More concerning, though, was the conversation she overheard between Clark and Lex—something about Lex taking a nine iron to a meter maid's car.

That didn't sound like Lex. God knew the poor kid wasn't perfect, but even a few months ago, when he'd laid out a long list of his sins to her, arbitrary violence wasn't on the list. If anything, he could sometimes err on the side of cold and calculating, too unemotional in his decision making.

She thought back to what she'd promised him after his confessions. He'd told her that a darkness lived in him, a darkness he couldn't always control. He feared it would someday take over, and she'd sworn to him that she wouldn't let it.

Maybe the time had come for her to make good on her promise.

Clark helped Jonathan out to the car—really, just followed him, as Jonathan was still refusing help—while Martha hung back to talk to Lex.

"Come by the house, Lex. I'll expect to see you within the hour."

Lex's voice caught. "Ah, Mrs. Kent—"

"You don't have any appointments, and you're caught up on work, according to your father."

He raised his eyebrows. "I . . ."

"One hour, Lex."

Martha headed out to the car ahead of him, and considered what she needed to do. She knew how she'd deal with Clark misbehaving in a way she thought was uncharacteristic. She'd sit him down and ask as many questions as she could to try to understand where the behavior was coming from. If it turned out to be some deeper issue at play, she'd comfort him and help him work through it, and Jonathan would come in and offer his advice as well, along with warning him sternly against repeating his actions.

If it really was just a bad decision, though, she'd tell Clark she was disappointed, and then make him explain his choices to Jonathan in detail. Then, Jonathan would lecture him—depending on the severity of the infraction, Clark might or might not get through that part without tears. On the rare occasion when it was still needed after the lecture, either Martha or Jonathan would give him extra chores or ground him. It worked well. Clark rarely made the same mistake twice.

She wasn't sure if she should, or could, use the same approach with Lex. Not because he was too old—given his emotional maturity, the poor kid could use a second shot at being a teenager. But Jonathan wasn't in a state to be able to give a lecture if it was needed, and he didn't quite have the rapport with Lex that would necessary to give it, so if she thought he needed to be scolded, she would have to be the one to do it. That would have been fine with her, but it seemed like an overstepping of her place. As much as she was starting to consider Lex to be her son, she doubted he considered her to be his mother.

But she could still talk to him and try to figure out what happened.

Once Martha was satisfied that Jonathan was settled comfortably in bed, and Clark had gone out to the Talon, Martha settled on the couch to think while she waited for Lex.

The knock on the door came only a moment later.

"Hi, Lex." In her contemplations, she almost forgot to embrace him as he entered the house. He hugged back, but remained stiffer than usual in her arms this time—he seemed to know he was in trouble.

"Is everything alright, Mrs. Kent?"

"Well, that's what I'm trying to figure out." She sat down on the couch, and gestured for him to do the same.

He did, albeit quite hesitantly.

"What happened this morning?"

His face turned pink. "I'm not sure what you mean."

Disappointment and frustration flooded through her. "And I thought you were past lying to me."

He sighed. "I was having a bad day."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

She slid a bit closer, taking his hand. "I want to help you. You told me once that there's . . . a darkness that lives inside you, and that you sometimes have a hard time controlling it."

"Oh! No. That . . . that had nothing to do with this. I was just angry."

She put conscious effort into making sure her sigh of relief was inaudible to him. "Well, I'm glad to hear that. But in that case, it means it was you that did it. You made the choice."

He straightened up a little in his seat. "Are you upset with me?" His voice sounded more curious than concerned.

She chose her words carefully. "You're an amazing young man, Lex. You're brave and noble, you fight for the people you care about, and you do incredible work. But then you do this." She shook her head. "I'm more disappointed than upset."

It was almost surreal. She watched him deflate.

He only slouched a little, but his head hung, and his eyes fell closed, squinting for a half-second as though he were in severe pain. His hand went limp in hers, and when he opened his eyes, they shone.

Maternal instinct kicked in. He did not need a scolding. Not this time.

"Oh, come here," she said, and scooted closer to him, pulling his head down onto her shoulder. His arms wrapped loosely around her as she alternately rubbed his back and stroked his head. "You know I love you, sweetie. Even when I'm disappointed."

He pulled back for a moment, searching her eyes. It wasn't the first time she'd told him she loved him, but he still seemed to be having a hard time believing it, especially when he made a mistake. So she concentrated on the love and care she felt for him, letting it show on her face.

He must have been able to see it. He melted back into her arms again, this time holding onto her tighter than he ever had. She smiled, but readied herself to be stern again if he needed it.

When his grip loosened, she asked, "What were you angry about?"

He was silent for a long time before he lifted his head from her shoulder and spoke, avoiding her gaze. "I employ 2500 people in this town, but by the way people talk, you'd think I'd enslaved them." His voice was soft, but there were undertones that reflected his rage.

She could tell him until she was blue in the face that he wasn't like his father, and that her whole family believed he was a good man. They'd all told him, but it wasn't enough. For all her striving to validate his struggles, it wouldn't be enough today. He was angry, enough to have lost control.

And suddenly Martha knew. It wouldn't be a permanent fix, but it would help him for now—he needed an outlet.

"Lex, have you ever pitched silage?"

Lex had no idea how Mr. Kent did this every day. Pitching silage was backbreaking work—his arms and back and legs ached, his lungs burned, and he was already sweating buckets through the set of work clothes Clark had lent him. Mercifully, though, his headache was completely gone.

When Mrs. Kent had him change clothes and took him out to the silo, he wasn't sure what she was trying to do. She asked him nicely to help out, and he was happy to oblige, having no idea how exhausting it was going to be.

A few minutes in, when he was already gasping for breath, a new idea occurred to him. This was a penance. She was upset with him, and she was making him pay for his sins. He would have stopped as soon as the realization hit him, except that if she was trying to punish him, he deserved that and more. So he doubled his efforts, until the searing heat in his muscles wouldn't let him work any harder.

It felt like hours had passed when she came out to check on him, by which time sweat dripped from his head and down the sides of his face.

"Doing okay, Lex?"

He stopped for long enough to catch his breath. "How long have I been out here?"

"About a half an hour."

He slumped down, his hands dropping to his knees. "Are you still upset with me?"

"Do you think I'm making you do this because I'm upset?"

He straightened back up, wincing. "Why am I doing this?"

"How's the anger?"

His mind replayed the scene with the meter maid again, words that had made his heart rate triple just an hour ago. It didn't triple now. In fact, it barely responded. No adrenaline, no blurriness in the corners of his vision. No physical response to the anger at all.

Oh.

Mrs. Kent smiled. "Finish the job, and then come shower in the house. You're staying for dinner. I'm making a pie, too."

Her tone didn't give him any room to argue. "Okay."

"Slow down a little. I don't want you to hurt yourself."

"Okay."

"I'm not upset with you, Lex, but I do want you to think about how you want to answer me the next time I ask you about something that happened."

Lex rolled his eyes. "Yes, Mom."

The words slipped out before he could think about them.

He'd meant it as a tease, but the slight pause in her expression made him realize what he'd just said. "I, ah—"

"Don't you roll your eyes at me." She crossed her arms. "And I don't like that tone, Alexander, I don't care how old you are."

His voice caught in his throat.

"Finish the job. Come back inside when you're done."

She turned and walked away, leaving him struggling to hold back a smile.