While he collected his thoughts and tried to muster faith that he could say what his son needed most to hear, and in the way that would be best for his child, without letting his own feelings get in the way, Jonathan carefully touched every part of the surprisingly long and deep tear in his son's rapidly swelling lip. Clark must have been in substantial pain, because he'd come fairly close to biting all the way through his lower lip to the inside of his mouth. His father winced on his behalf but continued to catch the blood, gingerly working a bit of the cloth into the cut and trying to staunch the flow. Clark whimpered and looked like he was going to start crying again, but Jonathan moved his left thumb, rubbing at the base of Clark's skull, where oversensitive nerves were quivering, and the boy released a breath and a little bit of tension. Jonathan kept up this routine for another minute or so, then put the warm cloth on the corner of the table and picked up the ice pack; he pressed it gently against the cut and held it there, knowing what was coming. Clark whimpered again and jerked a bit, but when he opened his eyes in fear, his father saw that the boy wasn't trying to fight him; the reaction was a reflex, and Jonathan empathized, remembering more than one split lip of his own.

"I know, son, but you're doing well; you're going to be fine." His tone was soft, and he saw trust warring with pain in his son's eyes. He knew that Clark deeply needed reassurance and solace, and the teenager would get as much as his father could dish out, but only when Jonathan was sure his son understood why he was hurting and that his father cared very much about making him feel better.

Once he was sure the bleeding had stopped, Jonathan gently took Clark's right hand and placed it over the ice pack, folding the trembling fingers over the softness of the cloth. When the boy showed that he understood what his father wanted and held the pack in place himself, Jonathan nodded slightly, brushed his hand lightly down the side of his son's wrist, and stood up, unfolding his powerful frame with new ease.

As her husband surveyed the situation and decided how to proceed, Martha gave in to her better judgment and brought their son a tall glass of chilled water. He started to gulp it, but about halfway through the glass, he stopped, looking vaguely sick. His mother murmured to him to slow down; the teenager took a deep breath and then an obedient slow sip; for the next minute or so, he alternated sipping the water and holding the ice pack to his battered lip, trying to manage two sources of distress at once. Then the microwave dinged, and she walked over and carefully removed the steaming dish of casserole, adding a dry slice of freshly toasted bread and pouring the milk from the stove into a glass. As she gathered napkins and a fork for her son, she glanced at her husband; he caught her eye and nodded, letting her know that he was still in step with her.

While Martha waited by the counter, expertly juggling the bland feast, Jonathan leaned down behind Clark; the teenager physically shrank from his father but stayed in the chair. Jonathan grasped the edges of Clark's chair seat and easily lifted the whole package—sturdy wooden chair, three pillows, and 400lb cowering teenage boy—turning his son to face the table and scooting him into place. Martha glided over and smoothly placed the dishes in front of her son, gently taking the ice pack out of his hand and slipping the handle of the fork into his now-empty palm. Clark looked at the fork and then at her in confusion, as if the idea of eating had never occurred to him, but when she nodded encouragingly toward the plate, he obediently—if slowly—slipped the fork into the casserole and cut himself a tiny bite. Martha sighed to herself, knowing that none of this was going to come easily, and resolved herself to be satisfied with what she got.

Clark chewed slowly; he was grateful and amazed that his mother would still want to nurture him this way, but at the moment he couldn't really taste anything, and every nerve in his body was hypersensitized, so every contact, every sensation, was magnified. The heat from the food was almost too much for his mouth and throat, but he knew his mother hadn't intended to cause a problem and he didn't have the energy to blow on the casserole to cool it. He was still in a great deal of pain from his father's wake-up call, though he still couldn't find any anger or resentment toward Jonathan, and he realized that some of the intensity was actually caused by the serious jolt his system had taken when the ring had left contact with his skin. So he chewed slowly and carefully, trying to get sustenance past the massive lump in his throat and through the Richter-worthy quake zone formerly known as his stomach.

He was working his way through his first tiny bite of toast when he felt something that made him freeze momentarily. Two large, strong hands came to rest on his shoulders, at first still but then moving, fingers flexing and palms rocking rhythmically. The motions were firm enough to feel penetrating and effective, but tender in a way that Clark couldn't have put into words. The massage was yet another surprise, one that evoked such deep gratitude and awe that Clark nearly sobbed. In a startling instant of clarity, he realized that, even before his disappearing act, it had been a very long time since he had just accepted and experienced his father's touch. Since the first day Clark had entered their lives, Jonathan had dusted the boy's life with little physical expressions of affection, but Clark had taken them for granted for so long that, sitting there in the kitchen, wrapped in pain and remorse and uncertainty, he got the distinct impression that he was really feeling his father's touch for the first time in too long. In a way, the contact was almost electrifying, as if their spirits were reacting to one another, and at the same time it was incredibly comforting. Clark found himself leaning into his father at every turn tonight, and though he supposed he should be properly embarrassed at his age, this night he couldn't muster anything other than gratitude and a deep craving for more.

Jonathan felt Clark's stillness and realized the boy was afraid that if he moved the rubbing would stop; the farmer smiled a little to himself and kept kneading, leaning down to whisper for his son to keep eating and drinking his water and milk. He heard his son's sigh of relief as he relaxed a little, and Jonathan kept his hands moving, alternating between his son's shoulders and the back of the smooth neck. At one point he kept his hands on the neck and shoulders, and moved his index fingers up to gently massage the tender area just beneath the joints of Clark's lower jaw.

When Clark was eating again and Jonathan couldn't put it off any longer, the father started to speak. He kept his voice low and slow and even, his tone deadly serious, and his hands tender—a testament to the fact that what he had to say was painful and hard for all of them, and he wouldn't be saying it if his son wasn't precious to him.

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