Jonathan had, until this moment, not had a clue how he was going to respond
to Clark's attitude. He was angry but in control and wouldn't allow his
fury to drive his actions--although Clark didn't have to know that right
now. He was sure, as he stood seething, that his son expected him to yell
or even to beat him up, but Jonathan refused to consider acting like a thug
or intentionally injuring his son. Clark was going to have to face some
consequences for his actions, and Jonathan was going to have to make amends
to his son for his own mistakes, but until Clark was ready to shut his
mouth and deal with reality and his own vulnerability, they would never get
anywhere. He needed to get Clark's attention, undivided and submissive,
and none of his usual methods would serve. All of him hated this, and a
part of him just wanted to drag the kid into his arms and hold on forever,
but he couldn't let his son continue disrespecting himself and his parents;
besides, he somehow knew that if he hugged Clark right now, the anger would
tighten his grip to the point of doing real damage. He remembered how much
force it took to bruise his son, and he didn't want that; he also knew that
the boy was getting weaker without the ring or any real rest. Whatever was
going to happen needed to be quick and decisive, a power play that would
put the authority back in his hands. Frustration stoked his anger, and for
the thousandth time in his son's life, Jonathan thought, "I have half a
mind to."
Clark couldn't remember the last time that he had been truly afraid of his father, but held half-standing, suspended by the front of his shirt, with his father's face only millimeters from him, Clark was scared. He could feel Jonathan's blue eyes staring at him with such intensity that he wondered briefly just how many of his powers his father now had.
Unfortunately, a brief thought was all he had time for, as something in Jonathan's eyes shifted slightly, solidified, and Clark did not like what he saw. The teenager quickly discovered that speed and strength were the only powers that mattered as he found himself being turned around, pulled a few paces, and draped over the low part of the scalloped white fence--the curved wooden edges met him just above the waist of his jeans, leaving his lower body within reach of his father and his torso stretched, back nearly straight, chest slightly tilted toward the ground on the other side. It took Clark a moment to register what was happening--and then his jaw dropped in unmitigated shock. He tried to fight, to stand up, to kick, to do anything that would help him, but he was too weak and his father had put him in an indefensible position. He could breathe, he could twist his torso, but he couldn't rise, partially because Jonathan had laid one arm across Clark's back and was effectively pinning him. He couldn't see what Jonathan was doing with his other hand, but having heard of this kind of thing, Clark had a sickening suspicion that he knew. He turned, finding his mother with his eyes. He put on the most pitiful face and voice he could muster. "Mooooom, come on, you're not really gonna stand there and let him do this to me, are you?"
Martha, surprised at being addressed, eyed the situation for a moment and then focused on her son, her tone easy and unperturbed. "Uh. yeah, yeah, actually, sounds like a plan to me."
Clark shot her a betrayed look, but Jonathan's voice pulled Clark's thoughts back to what was happening. "Oh, no you don't--you talked your way into this one, but you can't talk your way out!" Jon spoke through a set jaw and clenched teeth as he struggled briefly with something Clark couldn't see.
Growing more and more anxious and indignant and tired of the game, the teenager took a deep breath and tried again, this time appealing to his father to let him off the hook. "Come on, Dad, let's be reasonable here-- I'm sure we can work this out like men!"
Jonathan laughed shortly as he worked with something that clinked and flapped. "Kid, I tried to reason with you, but you didn't want to act like a man--so since you're acting like a child, I'm going to treat you like a child." The farmer shifted, taking his arm from the middle of his son's back and placing that hand on Clark's lower spine, just above the waistline of his jeans. The teenager inhaled sharply, trying to calm himself, telling himself that his father wouldn't really do what Clark thought his father wanted to do. He never had before--of course, up until tonight, it would have literally hurt his father more than it hurt Clark. Of course he wouldn't do this; Jonathan was soft. Relieved that he'd satisfied his own anxiety, he relaxed, grinning slightly as he said, "Aw, come on, Dad, let me up--we both know you're not really gonna do it--you love me too much; and besides, even if you tried, you couldn't make it hurt."
In Clark's relaxed state, Jonathan's "Wanna bet?" hit him just a second before the belt did, the leather snapping against ultra-thin layers of cotton and denim, and the teenager suddenly remembered that he had nothing in his back pockets. As the searing sting bit into his pain receptors, he suddenly understood why Pete had always called them licks--it was like being touched by flame. He could tell that his father was holding back, not using anywhere near his new full strength, and with an effort, he kept his mouth shut, refusing to react, trying to be tough, but when the second lick snapped a little lower, he gave a loud "Ow!" He was hoping that would satisfy his father, that Jonathan would be fooled into believing that Clark had gotten the point and would stop before it got any more embarrassing or painful.
That hope was dispelled when a third lick came mere seconds later, and Clark gave up on the idea of respite and concentrated on keeping quiet, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. The fourth brought an involuntary grunt from his throat and tears to his eyes, and the fifth made it intensely difficult not to cry out. By the sixth lick, he gave up trying to stay silent and tried to tell his dad that he was sorry for how he'd acted; to his own surprise, it was true--he'd lost his anger and indignation and just wanted this to be over. He tasted salt and realized that his tears were no longer under his control. He managed not to sob; his words were quiet and stuttering, interrupted by the next lick, but Jonathan seemed to understand and said, "I know, son, and it'll be over soon." Clark shut his eyes and cried out weakly as the eighth lick came. He winced and gripped the fence, making dents with his fingers but not able to break the wood. With his heart pounding in his ears, it took him a moment to understand that Jonathan had stopped.
Quiet fell over the yard as Jon dropped his arm; all three Kents were breathing hard. Martha watched as Jonathan wiped the back of his belt hand across his brow, sweeping away sweat, then moved his hand down to brush his wrist back over his eyes. When he finished, he raised his head, looking pale and drawn and vaguely nauseated. After a few seconds, in a startling burst of anger, he whipped around and threw the belt with all of his strength, and even in the light Martha knew she wouldn't have been able to see where it landed. Calm again, Jonathan slowly completed his circle, turning back to look at the helpless form of their son.
It was time to put their child back together.
Clark couldn't remember the last time that he had been truly afraid of his father, but held half-standing, suspended by the front of his shirt, with his father's face only millimeters from him, Clark was scared. He could feel Jonathan's blue eyes staring at him with such intensity that he wondered briefly just how many of his powers his father now had.
Unfortunately, a brief thought was all he had time for, as something in Jonathan's eyes shifted slightly, solidified, and Clark did not like what he saw. The teenager quickly discovered that speed and strength were the only powers that mattered as he found himself being turned around, pulled a few paces, and draped over the low part of the scalloped white fence--the curved wooden edges met him just above the waist of his jeans, leaving his lower body within reach of his father and his torso stretched, back nearly straight, chest slightly tilted toward the ground on the other side. It took Clark a moment to register what was happening--and then his jaw dropped in unmitigated shock. He tried to fight, to stand up, to kick, to do anything that would help him, but he was too weak and his father had put him in an indefensible position. He could breathe, he could twist his torso, but he couldn't rise, partially because Jonathan had laid one arm across Clark's back and was effectively pinning him. He couldn't see what Jonathan was doing with his other hand, but having heard of this kind of thing, Clark had a sickening suspicion that he knew. He turned, finding his mother with his eyes. He put on the most pitiful face and voice he could muster. "Mooooom, come on, you're not really gonna stand there and let him do this to me, are you?"
Martha, surprised at being addressed, eyed the situation for a moment and then focused on her son, her tone easy and unperturbed. "Uh. yeah, yeah, actually, sounds like a plan to me."
Clark shot her a betrayed look, but Jonathan's voice pulled Clark's thoughts back to what was happening. "Oh, no you don't--you talked your way into this one, but you can't talk your way out!" Jon spoke through a set jaw and clenched teeth as he struggled briefly with something Clark couldn't see.
Growing more and more anxious and indignant and tired of the game, the teenager took a deep breath and tried again, this time appealing to his father to let him off the hook. "Come on, Dad, let's be reasonable here-- I'm sure we can work this out like men!"
Jonathan laughed shortly as he worked with something that clinked and flapped. "Kid, I tried to reason with you, but you didn't want to act like a man--so since you're acting like a child, I'm going to treat you like a child." The farmer shifted, taking his arm from the middle of his son's back and placing that hand on Clark's lower spine, just above the waistline of his jeans. The teenager inhaled sharply, trying to calm himself, telling himself that his father wouldn't really do what Clark thought his father wanted to do. He never had before--of course, up until tonight, it would have literally hurt his father more than it hurt Clark. Of course he wouldn't do this; Jonathan was soft. Relieved that he'd satisfied his own anxiety, he relaxed, grinning slightly as he said, "Aw, come on, Dad, let me up--we both know you're not really gonna do it--you love me too much; and besides, even if you tried, you couldn't make it hurt."
In Clark's relaxed state, Jonathan's "Wanna bet?" hit him just a second before the belt did, the leather snapping against ultra-thin layers of cotton and denim, and the teenager suddenly remembered that he had nothing in his back pockets. As the searing sting bit into his pain receptors, he suddenly understood why Pete had always called them licks--it was like being touched by flame. He could tell that his father was holding back, not using anywhere near his new full strength, and with an effort, he kept his mouth shut, refusing to react, trying to be tough, but when the second lick snapped a little lower, he gave a loud "Ow!" He was hoping that would satisfy his father, that Jonathan would be fooled into believing that Clark had gotten the point and would stop before it got any more embarrassing or painful.
That hope was dispelled when a third lick came mere seconds later, and Clark gave up on the idea of respite and concentrated on keeping quiet, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. The fourth brought an involuntary grunt from his throat and tears to his eyes, and the fifth made it intensely difficult not to cry out. By the sixth lick, he gave up trying to stay silent and tried to tell his dad that he was sorry for how he'd acted; to his own surprise, it was true--he'd lost his anger and indignation and just wanted this to be over. He tasted salt and realized that his tears were no longer under his control. He managed not to sob; his words were quiet and stuttering, interrupted by the next lick, but Jonathan seemed to understand and said, "I know, son, and it'll be over soon." Clark shut his eyes and cried out weakly as the eighth lick came. He winced and gripped the fence, making dents with his fingers but not able to break the wood. With his heart pounding in his ears, it took him a moment to understand that Jonathan had stopped.
Quiet fell over the yard as Jon dropped his arm; all three Kents were breathing hard. Martha watched as Jonathan wiped the back of his belt hand across his brow, sweeping away sweat, then moved his hand down to brush his wrist back over his eyes. When he finished, he raised his head, looking pale and drawn and vaguely nauseated. After a few seconds, in a startling burst of anger, he whipped around and threw the belt with all of his strength, and even in the light Martha knew she wouldn't have been able to see where it landed. Calm again, Jonathan slowly completed his circle, turning back to look at the helpless form of their son.
It was time to put their child back together.