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It was only a twenty-foot walk from the fence to the front porch, but it seemed to stretch on forever; all the farmer wanted was for this to be over, but he couldn't rush the teenager. Jon could feel that Clark's knees were watery and he could hear the sniffles the boy tried to hide. Though Clark was totally submissive and never tried to pull away or flee, when they reached the bottom of the porch steps, he shuffled to a halt, gazing up at the house and then slowly turning down his eyes to look at himself; Jonathan somehow knew that Clark felt unworthy to enter the simple sanctity of their home. When Jonathan felt his son breaking all over again, he tightened his arms, leaning toward the teenager's ear and murmuring, "Come on, son, it's okay, this is where you belong." He gently nudged Clark back into motion, and they both concentrated on working their way up the stairs; Clark's breath frequently caught and the skin around his eyes tightened in pain, but he let himself be guided to the top.
Clark kept his head down as Jon moved him across the porch. When they reached the threshold, he felt his father squeeze him gently to get his attention, and he slowly lifted his head, feeling that warm blade cutting in a physical pain that radiated through his torso and from his shoulders to his fingertips. The pain gripped his core, squeezing his heart and lungs, dragging him down, until he found momentary respite when his breath was taken away by a pair of jewel eyes bright with unshed tears.
Gazing into his mother's eyes, Clark felt an unexpected flame of resentment flare and then just as quickly die inside him, replaced by a burning flood of fresh shame and sorrow. To his surprise, though, Martha's eyes held only pain and grief for him and relief for herself. She reflexively put her hands over her mouth, as if in shock, but after a moment she reached out, not quite reaching him but beckoning him toward her.
Clark stood transfixed; he couldn't take his eyes from his mother, and he didn't think he could move the two inches it would take to cross from the rapidly chilling domain of the outside world into the warm safety of the Kent home. Jonathan gave him a nudge, and when that didn't help, the farmer silently sighed and gently lifted his son just enough to place him firmly inside the house, less than twelve inches from Martha's shimmering gaze.
Jonathan saw the moment his wife and son renewed their connection, and he smiled a bit in satisfaction as the two people he loved the most finally came face to face with what they needed most. He made sure that Clark was fairly steady on his feet, then reluctantly handed him off to Martha, knowing that his wife would understand without the need for words.
Martha made the transition easily, naturally. She reached out again, this time committing, and gently slipped her hands up to cradle both sides of his face. She felt the texture of his pale skin, chilled from the night air and wet from perspiration and emotion. When she touched him, Clark drew in his breath again, and his tears welled fresh and hot with the contact. His mouth worked helplessly as he tried to form words to convey what he'd needed her to know for months and hadn't been able to say, but she shook her head slightly and tenderly placed her thumb over his lips for a moment, stilling him and letting him know that she was in control of this reunion and that was okay. He stopped trying to speak and just looked at her pleadingly; his eyes gave her everything, all of who he was, a total surrender of his will, and begged her to show him what to do, what to be. His tears spilled down his cheeks and over her hands, as if cleansing and sanctifying their link. With her eyes she accepted his submission and claimed him as hers, as theirs, unfinished but well-crafted and strong of essence. Knowing that he needed the reassurance that she still knew him when he wasn't sure he knew himself, and needing for her own peace of mind to make sure that this was real and that her child was really home, Martha gently pulled Clark's head down, tilting hers up so that their foreheads met, and both pairs of eyes closed, long lashes fanning over two sets of damp cheeks as her tears of relief finally came. Little things came to her, things only a parent would notice--his skin was slightly chilled and she could feel sweat on his brow from the evening's stress; his hair curled against her fingertips, in sore need of a good combing and washing and trim; his breath was warm and stuttered, and the smell of peppermint and something she hoped wasn't beer was so faint that she wondered how many days it had been since he'd eaten anything. His pulse pounded behind his forehead, and his mother thrust out all of her mental energy through their bond, wanting nothing more than to quiet his fears and help him understand that he was home.
She held him like that for perhaps two minutes in total stillness, and then she felt his hands, trembling and tentative, cover hers, not to push her away but to hold her closer to him. Her knees wanted to give out with the release of her tension, but she could feel how her son still quivered, and she knew that she had to stay strong for him, just as she had for fourteen years, just as Jonathan had for both of them for longer than that. In some part of the back of her mind, Martha could sense her husband moving with purpose, could hear him shifting things quietly and making some sort of arrangements, but right then for most of her conscious mind nothing existed outside of herself and her son.
Eventually, no longer able to resist the need to feel her son in her arms, Martha brought Clark's head down to the side, tucking his chin onto her shoulder, and pulled him close, gathering him to her as his ragged breathing changed to silent sobs. She could feel the exhaustion that permeated every fiber of his being, and she knew that he needed more than simple food and sleep to renew his strength--he needed rest, real rest to restore his stability and security, and she knew both she and her husband were determined to be his refuge.
She held him tight, one arm across his back and the other up his spine with a hand protectively cupping the back of his head, until she felt a warm touch on her own back and turned her head, opening her eyes to see her husband next to her with an approving look in his eyes; she nodded slightly, seeing what he wanted, and when he put a hand on Clark's back and the boy pulled himself up a bit to turn a confused gaze on his father, she nudged her son toward Jonathan, sliding to one side so that she could support Clark without monopolizing him.
The two parents slowly helped their son move into the kitchen, where Martha almost laughed at what her husband had done--there, in the middle of the floor, next to the table which had been moved a foot to one side, sat a dining chair, its seat piled high with various pillows from the couch and the downstairs storage closet. Jon and Martha escorted Clark over to the chair, then turned him and slowly lowered him onto the newly plush seat, with Jonathan providing most of the balance and the steadying assurance of his touch.
Everything went fairly smoothly until Clark let his weight rest on the pile of padding--and then his eyes widened, he emitted a whimper that was really more of a squeak, and he shot straight up again. Knowing more about what to expect than Clark did, Jonathan was right there, and he caught his son's shoulders and lowered him gently but firmly back onto the pile. Clark blanched and pursed his lips, and he looked like he wanted to scream, but his father caught his gaze and held it, cupping his chin and murmuring to him. "Breathe through it, son, breathing helps; I know it hurts but you've got to breathe." Jonathan held onto his chin and his focus, breathing with him until Clark calmed. The boy was still wincing and whimpering slightly, but he got a grip on himself and reined in the impulse to stand up. He tried to find some anger or resentment for his father, but he didn't have the energy and he could see in his dad's eyes that Jonathan was far from enjoying this.
When Jon was sure that his son was settled in his position and ready to listen, the farmer released the young chin and shoulder and nodded to Martha, who was already pulling out dishes and utensils. As she glided to the refrigerator to rescue the milk and the King Ranch casserole she'd made that afternoon, Jonathan reached into a drawer and took out a clean hand towel, then moved around behind his son, laying the towel on the floor behind the chair. Jonathan took his son's shoulders and gently levered him back to lean against the back of the chair. Then he slipped two fingers into his own shirt pocket, sliding out one of his own combs that he'd grabbed while he was readying the chair and table. As Martha watched from the microwave nook, Jonathan smoothed Clark's matted, wavy hair back from his forehead, and then he slipped the teeth of the comb into the front of his son's hair near the roots and began to draw it back slowly, concerned about glinting bits of sharp glass that might hurt the newly vulnerable scalp and ears. As he came to the sides of his son's head, he checked each of those ears in turn, capable fingers nudging the soft tissue and probing the sensitive areas with infinite care. Clark closed his eyes at the tenderness of his father's touch, and he was surprised that he had to fight an urge to lean back against his father as Jonathan drew in a breath and spoke in low, measured tones.
"Now, I think it's time that we set some things straight."
It was only a twenty-foot walk from the fence to the front porch, but it seemed to stretch on forever; all the farmer wanted was for this to be over, but he couldn't rush the teenager. Jon could feel that Clark's knees were watery and he could hear the sniffles the boy tried to hide. Though Clark was totally submissive and never tried to pull away or flee, when they reached the bottom of the porch steps, he shuffled to a halt, gazing up at the house and then slowly turning down his eyes to look at himself; Jonathan somehow knew that Clark felt unworthy to enter the simple sanctity of their home. When Jonathan felt his son breaking all over again, he tightened his arms, leaning toward the teenager's ear and murmuring, "Come on, son, it's okay, this is where you belong." He gently nudged Clark back into motion, and they both concentrated on working their way up the stairs; Clark's breath frequently caught and the skin around his eyes tightened in pain, but he let himself be guided to the top.
Clark kept his head down as Jon moved him across the porch. When they reached the threshold, he felt his father squeeze him gently to get his attention, and he slowly lifted his head, feeling that warm blade cutting in a physical pain that radiated through his torso and from his shoulders to his fingertips. The pain gripped his core, squeezing his heart and lungs, dragging him down, until he found momentary respite when his breath was taken away by a pair of jewel eyes bright with unshed tears.
Gazing into his mother's eyes, Clark felt an unexpected flame of resentment flare and then just as quickly die inside him, replaced by a burning flood of fresh shame and sorrow. To his surprise, though, Martha's eyes held only pain and grief for him and relief for herself. She reflexively put her hands over her mouth, as if in shock, but after a moment she reached out, not quite reaching him but beckoning him toward her.
Clark stood transfixed; he couldn't take his eyes from his mother, and he didn't think he could move the two inches it would take to cross from the rapidly chilling domain of the outside world into the warm safety of the Kent home. Jonathan gave him a nudge, and when that didn't help, the farmer silently sighed and gently lifted his son just enough to place him firmly inside the house, less than twelve inches from Martha's shimmering gaze.
Jonathan saw the moment his wife and son renewed their connection, and he smiled a bit in satisfaction as the two people he loved the most finally came face to face with what they needed most. He made sure that Clark was fairly steady on his feet, then reluctantly handed him off to Martha, knowing that his wife would understand without the need for words.
Martha made the transition easily, naturally. She reached out again, this time committing, and gently slipped her hands up to cradle both sides of his face. She felt the texture of his pale skin, chilled from the night air and wet from perspiration and emotion. When she touched him, Clark drew in his breath again, and his tears welled fresh and hot with the contact. His mouth worked helplessly as he tried to form words to convey what he'd needed her to know for months and hadn't been able to say, but she shook her head slightly and tenderly placed her thumb over his lips for a moment, stilling him and letting him know that she was in control of this reunion and that was okay. He stopped trying to speak and just looked at her pleadingly; his eyes gave her everything, all of who he was, a total surrender of his will, and begged her to show him what to do, what to be. His tears spilled down his cheeks and over her hands, as if cleansing and sanctifying their link. With her eyes she accepted his submission and claimed him as hers, as theirs, unfinished but well-crafted and strong of essence. Knowing that he needed the reassurance that she still knew him when he wasn't sure he knew himself, and needing for her own peace of mind to make sure that this was real and that her child was really home, Martha gently pulled Clark's head down, tilting hers up so that their foreheads met, and both pairs of eyes closed, long lashes fanning over two sets of damp cheeks as her tears of relief finally came. Little things came to her, things only a parent would notice--his skin was slightly chilled and she could feel sweat on his brow from the evening's stress; his hair curled against her fingertips, in sore need of a good combing and washing and trim; his breath was warm and stuttered, and the smell of peppermint and something she hoped wasn't beer was so faint that she wondered how many days it had been since he'd eaten anything. His pulse pounded behind his forehead, and his mother thrust out all of her mental energy through their bond, wanting nothing more than to quiet his fears and help him understand that he was home.
She held him like that for perhaps two minutes in total stillness, and then she felt his hands, trembling and tentative, cover hers, not to push her away but to hold her closer to him. Her knees wanted to give out with the release of her tension, but she could feel how her son still quivered, and she knew that she had to stay strong for him, just as she had for fourteen years, just as Jonathan had for both of them for longer than that. In some part of the back of her mind, Martha could sense her husband moving with purpose, could hear him shifting things quietly and making some sort of arrangements, but right then for most of her conscious mind nothing existed outside of herself and her son.
Eventually, no longer able to resist the need to feel her son in her arms, Martha brought Clark's head down to the side, tucking his chin onto her shoulder, and pulled him close, gathering him to her as his ragged breathing changed to silent sobs. She could feel the exhaustion that permeated every fiber of his being, and she knew that he needed more than simple food and sleep to renew his strength--he needed rest, real rest to restore his stability and security, and she knew both she and her husband were determined to be his refuge.
She held him tight, one arm across his back and the other up his spine with a hand protectively cupping the back of his head, until she felt a warm touch on her own back and turned her head, opening her eyes to see her husband next to her with an approving look in his eyes; she nodded slightly, seeing what he wanted, and when he put a hand on Clark's back and the boy pulled himself up a bit to turn a confused gaze on his father, she nudged her son toward Jonathan, sliding to one side so that she could support Clark without monopolizing him.
The two parents slowly helped their son move into the kitchen, where Martha almost laughed at what her husband had done--there, in the middle of the floor, next to the table which had been moved a foot to one side, sat a dining chair, its seat piled high with various pillows from the couch and the downstairs storage closet. Jon and Martha escorted Clark over to the chair, then turned him and slowly lowered him onto the newly plush seat, with Jonathan providing most of the balance and the steadying assurance of his touch.
Everything went fairly smoothly until Clark let his weight rest on the pile of padding--and then his eyes widened, he emitted a whimper that was really more of a squeak, and he shot straight up again. Knowing more about what to expect than Clark did, Jonathan was right there, and he caught his son's shoulders and lowered him gently but firmly back onto the pile. Clark blanched and pursed his lips, and he looked like he wanted to scream, but his father caught his gaze and held it, cupping his chin and murmuring to him. "Breathe through it, son, breathing helps; I know it hurts but you've got to breathe." Jonathan held onto his chin and his focus, breathing with him until Clark calmed. The boy was still wincing and whimpering slightly, but he got a grip on himself and reined in the impulse to stand up. He tried to find some anger or resentment for his father, but he didn't have the energy and he could see in his dad's eyes that Jonathan was far from enjoying this.
When Jon was sure that his son was settled in his position and ready to listen, the farmer released the young chin and shoulder and nodded to Martha, who was already pulling out dishes and utensils. As she glided to the refrigerator to rescue the milk and the King Ranch casserole she'd made that afternoon, Jonathan reached into a drawer and took out a clean hand towel, then moved around behind his son, laying the towel on the floor behind the chair. Jonathan took his son's shoulders and gently levered him back to lean against the back of the chair. Then he slipped two fingers into his own shirt pocket, sliding out one of his own combs that he'd grabbed while he was readying the chair and table. As Martha watched from the microwave nook, Jonathan smoothed Clark's matted, wavy hair back from his forehead, and then he slipped the teeth of the comb into the front of his son's hair near the roots and began to draw it back slowly, concerned about glinting bits of sharp glass that might hurt the newly vulnerable scalp and ears. As he came to the sides of his son's head, he checked each of those ears in turn, capable fingers nudging the soft tissue and probing the sensitive areas with infinite care. Clark closed his eyes at the tenderness of his father's touch, and he was surprised that he had to fight an urge to lean back against his father as Jonathan drew in a breath and spoke in low, measured tones.
"Now, I think it's time that we set some things straight."