Title: Remembering Home
Author: bonnysprite (kik)
Email: bonnysprite@yahoo.co.uk
Rating: unsure, PG-13
Challenge: Leaving to recover
Notes: Spoilers from S4 & S5. Thank you to danceswithgary for a wonderful beta. Any remaining mistakes are all my own. Also, gratitude and credit go to TWIZ TV, for it was their episode guides that aided in finishing this fic.
Summary: Sometimes, you’ve got to forget to remember. “How many times does someone have to forget before they can remember where they belong?” she “However many times it takes.”

*

It was quiet. Empty. Weighty with its grand dark voids, reminiscent of the dead of space and a long journey of old. He felt listless. There was nothing to ground him, no one to hold onto, to anchor him to keep him from drifting. Someone was supposed to be there. Or was there? But they’re gone, he couldn’t remember why. Was it his fault?

He felt old and young.

Neither here nor there.

Was this death?

His eyes itched. Slowly, cautiously, green eyes opened and met blinding light. This was familiar too.

An ache began deep in his chest, from a known spot; he remembered giving it its name – heart! His heart was hurting. This meant something; red hair, soft smells, sturdy hands and weather worn face topped with golden hair.

There was an answering tug in the back of his mind, with it came flashes of crystalline structures, a commanding voice, gentle touches and immense sorrow. It was significant too.

In between the two stood a barren waste land of something more. Both heart and mind were present, but not of their own accord, it was an inescapable attachment. Like breathing. Like the black of space. It just was. But what was ‘it’?

Soft lips, scarred. Broken, wet and hurting … he remembered smell and touch, but the image, memory was just … just beyond his reach.

He was torn, could not decide the path to follow, the choice taken from him when the ‘other’ called for him.

Segeth was dying. His mind raged and his heart cried. In this, they were one. Kal-El would allow Clark Kent to leave to save the ‘other’.

Clark blinked awake on the cave floors. He was naked and shivering. The chill unfamiliar, he huddled in on himself; would have stayed that way indefinitely if not for the prone figure slouched against the far wall, “Dad?”

Running over, he knelt beside Jonathan Kent to check his pulse. “Steady.” Sighing in relief, he cautiously lifted him up and sped to the farm as best he could.

The house was empty and dark. As he stepped through the front door, his vision blurred then focused but not on the room in which he stood but a moments ago. Cold and vacant, shadows reigned, chasing away the light of the few lit lamps. The path was not entirely clear, but faded at the edges, as though seeing through a distorted looking glass, but it still managed to feel familiar. His naked feet made no noise on the marble floors as they moved in a predetermined direction leading him to a brighter light that filtered out from a half-opened door. Pausing in what he now knew to be a hallway, he waited. The sense of urgency came without warning, heart racing he sped up, only a few short strides remained before reaching the light, he hoped the fog would lift, it was very important that he ….

“Clark?” He turned, “Mom?

Clark blinked, once, twice, let his gaze wander from his mother to the sudden source of light and then to his father. He was at the farm, in his house, standing in front of the sofa naked, his Dad still in his arms. Martha’s hand was still on the light switch.

They stared at each other, both uncertain and slightly frightened. Clark feared he was losing his mind.

He put his father down and tugged on the throw to wrap around his waist, would have super sped upstairs to get changed but his limbs felt not quite right. As though they did not want to be there, weren’t meant to be there.

“Clark, honey, what’s wrong, what’s happened?” Her hands cupped his cheek, bringing his face even with hers. He did not want to look into her eyes, something, something bad would happen if he did.

She would not listen. “Clark, look at me.” It was not a request. Green met blue. His blood was burning; he opened his mouth to scream, instead his breath closed in on him. Gasping, he looked at her with all the horror his body felt. His soul wanted to rip itself free. As he lost the last of his senses and gave into the pain, his body stilled.

Green eyes turned black then cleared to a sharp blue. “Tend to your mate. Clark Kent, is required elsewhere.”

Not even seconds between the sudden changes, he was gone before Martha could respond.

In minutes, Clark was hovering over Alexander Luthor. He could not recall the reasoning for his presence there, but he was grateful.

Lex was not breathing. His heart, though, continued to beat, erratically and with great difficulty, but it clung to life.

Willing his limbs to move Lex’s head, the better to perform CPR, he was not a little bit surprised when they obeyed. He’d felt like very little had been in his control in the last few hours.

One, two and three: breathe. One, two and three: breathe. One, two and three: breathe.

Clark continued and when he felt his breath failing him, Kal-El continued. “Segeth must live.”

The words uttered in a deeper, older voice preceded the tug and suddenly he was looking on from outside his corporeal form as one large tanned hand settled over Lex’s torso and the other on his forehead.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Clark could hear Lex’s wrist watch ticking away the seconds.

Nothing happened. He’d accepted his current situation with little fight but no more. He wasn’t going to watch as his body did nothing while Lex’s life hung in the balance.

Just as Clark reached out for his body, the hands, his hands, spanning Lex, began to glow. It spread. Firefly spots of light stretched from his heart down his outstretched limbs and pooled underneath his hands. The two orbs of light began to pulse, much like the steady rhythm of a heart beat. With each pulse, they grew, and then merged. Expanded, increasing in size steadily until it burst. Would have blinded anyone else, had they been present. Clark just looked on as the explosion of light filtered into Lex; the strongest concentrations being where his hands remained.

Lex stuttered out a breath. The familiar grogginess from most of his previous Smallville encounters absent, he was quick to settle on the body looming over him, curious at the strange blue staring back at him instead of the familiar green.

Kal-El spared a half smile before his eyes rolled and he collapsed. Clark was pulled back into his body, joining Kal-El in unconsciousness.

Lex reacted before his mind registered his actions, and had an arm full of farmboy for his efforts, naked farmboy.

*

Hours later, forest green eyes opened to unfamiliar surroundings. Something creaked in the back of his mind. Ignoring the pull, he tilted to the side and met with a pair of ice blue eyes. They were stunning. Filled with curiosity and wariness, they still managed to express concern.

“Clark” Lex didn’t need to say anything else. Just his name and it usually managed to convey all the questions he seemed to hold close. Questions he knew Clark could not answer honestly. It was a knee-jerk masochistic response, continuing to ask when Lex knew no satisfactory answers would be forthcoming; a habit he appeared unable to rid himself of with Clark and to a lesser extent, these days, with Lionel. Clark could understand the need to know, after all forewarned is forearmed, he was just not as compelled.

Luckily, before he could flounder for an answer that would put his foot in it, Enrique interrupted.

“Master Luthor, Mrs. Kent on line one for you and your father on line two.”

He’d not heard the door open, or the butler enter, but apparently neither had Lex, as they had both startled. But Lex’s gaze had not faltered, and at hearing his mother’s name, the gaze only sharpened. Apparently coming to a decision, he said, “Tell my father to hold, I’ll be down in a minute,” and almost daring him to say anything, continued, “And tell Mrs. Kent that her son is otherwise occupied.”

“Lex!” This was not what he was expecting.

The bald billionaire leaned over him, the smirk that had formed at Clark’s outburst but a distant memory. There was nothing of the man he once called friend staring down at him.

“You will wait here.” It was not a request.

Then he was gone.

Clark had no recall of how he came to be at the mansion, in what he only now realized to be Lex’s bed, but he was certain whatever the reason, he did not want to stick around for the Luthor version of the Spanish Inquisition. He needed to get home to figure out the chain of events that brought him there, naked, and without any memory of it.

He didn’t even pause to consider why Lex was confident enough to believe he would comply with the order, too busy searching for his clothes.

A quick x-ray scan revealed nothing of use to him. It wasn’t until he slipped out of bed, sheets held close to his body, not thinking about how many others may have been witnesses to his nakedness, that he spotted a familiar afghan.

Touching it, he felt a wave of … a memory? Pain, light, emptiness, a door behind which lay a fallen figure, shattered glass, the smell of alcohol and despair … a dark void slammed shut, putting a halt to any further progress, and brought Clark back to the present. He didn’t understand what it all meant but he would, once he got home. He just needed to get moving. Lex would be back too soon if he dawdled any longer.

Having found nothing else of his, Clark dropped Lex’s flat sheet, and quickly wrapped the afghan around his form, much like a toga, before heading for the door.

And discovered why Lex had issued his demand without any concern about it being followed. The door was locked. Clark’s usual means of opening it, a quick twist of his wrist or jamming his finger through the lock resulted in a chipped nail, deep enough to bleed.

His invulnerability and strength had left him. How had Lex known?

Up until that point, Clark had maintained a degree of calm. Lex had found him in enough Smallville-strange situations for Clark not to panic waking up in his room, naked, but now …

He made it back to the bed just before his legs gave out. Taking deep breaths, he tried to calm down.

Think, Clark, think. There has to be a way out.

Then he remembered, during his quick perusal of the room he’d seen the frame of a door behind Lex’s closet. Switching back to x-ray vision, letting out a sigh of relief when it worked, he followed the path behind the door. It led to a short passageway that dipped to meet narrowly winding stairs, several flights of stairs later, another door, the only door Clark had seen up until that point, which opened to reveal a pantry. Pushing his sight further, he discovered it was the cellar, not the pantry. The cellars were in the Luthor equivalent of the basement, the halls were long and circled the entire foundation, and from what he remembered, held several exits to different points of the Luthor property, aside from the one that lead to the kitchen. They would be his way out.

Scrambling off the bed, he followed the path his vision had shown, grateful that the doors could be opened with regular human strength. But the farther he went down, the more trouble his vision began to give. Flickering in and out, by the time he’d reached the bottom of the stairs and reached for the cellar door, his x-ray vision was all but gone. This whole affair was beginning to grate on his nerves. If he was going to be powerless, let it all be gone, this slow chipping away … he would curse Jor-El’s name if he wasn’t sure that Lex wouldn’t be beyond bugging even these hidden chambers.

Using his hands to guide him the reset of the way, he managed to eventually fumble into the underground halls which, gratefully, were lit.

Having an idea of the door he needed to find he made a mad dash towards it, only to discover that his speed had abandoned him as well. Pulling at his hair he silently screamed and was about to slam his foot into the wall in frustration when he remembered his vulnerable state.

Stomping his way down the hall to vent his anger, completely ignoring the damage it was doing to his bare feet, he eventually came upon the door he needed, one that opened to the back end of the Luthor property. Opening it, he cautiously took a peek outside and seeing no evidence of an ambush, stepped out and made a dash for the fields.

Two hours later, he was on Kent property.

Stumbling at the end of their fields, in sight of the barn and house, the remainder of Clark’s energy drained and his legs gave out. Falling, his head hit none too gently on the solid earth, and knocked the exhausted alien into unconsciousness. Clark’s last thought had been that he’d never been more grateful that Lionel Luthor was such a wind bag; he might not have made it so far otherwise.

*

“How is he doing?”

“He’s sleeping. His wounds aren’t healing and these two bumps on his head …”

“Two?”

“One to the side, which I assume he got from his fall outside and the other … who knows. And his feet, Jonathan, they’re raw from his trek. He’s not going to be able to walk on those for weeks without being in complete agony.”

“He’ll be alright, Martha. He’ll wake up, we’ll find out what happened to get him to this point, and then we’ll figure out a way to get him back to normal. After that, his injuries will be of no concern.”

“I hope so, Jonathan, I really hope so. I can’t bear to see him like this. It’s been two days.”

“Shhh, he’s made of stronger stuff than what makes him physically different. We’ll get through this like we get through everything: together. Now come on, you need some sleep.”

“I don’t want him to wake up alone.”

“I’ll sit with him. You’ve been with him the last two days straight. Quite frankly, honey, you need to get showered and to bed. You’re looking more like the walking dead than he did.”

“Okay, okay. I’m going, but you call me the moment he wakes up, you hear me?!”

“I promise. Now shoo.”

He’d waited until the woman’s footsteps had faded before opening his eyes, hoping to catch the man unawares, to make his escape. Instead, all motions to flee came to a halt at the grim eyes staring down at him.

“Want to tell me what you were planning there?” The voice was gruff, and upon closer inspection, he could see the man was in his forties, but built strong and sturdy, in his weakened condition he wasn’t sure he’d be able to take him on. But he’d try, just not then.

Lying back down, his feet brushed the footboard, and he yelped in pain. Arms came to hold him down. “Settle down. Don’t move, you’ll only aggravate your injuries.”

He followed the wise instructions, and found after the pain had eased, that if he held completely still, he was doing pretty okay.

As okay as someone who had no idea where he was, why he was there, who his hosts/prisoners (the jury was still out on that) were, or for the fact of the matter, who he was, yeah, he was doing okay.

“That’s better. Now do you want to tell me what that was about?”

There was something familiar about this man. His voice was entirely too comforting, in spite of its gruffness. Gentle hands lifted him up, and brought a glass to his lips. It wasn’t until he began sipping that he realized how thirsty he was.

“Whoa, that’s enough. You’ll make yourself sick if you drink too much.” Well he supposed he could conclude that these people meant no ill towards him. After taking a tally of his injuries, he’d surmised that the woman was talking about him, with genuine concern. Surely, they couldn’t have been the cause of it then. They also spoke of him with a great deal of familiarity. Maybe these people knew him and he knew them?

“I apologize, I meant no harm. Not really, I wasn’t sure who you were.” His voice sounded wrong even to his ears, and he didn’t even remember how his voice was supposed to sound.

“Not sure who I was?” The man’s voice held the worry that had been missing up until then. Gone was the surety with which he had reassured the woman. “Clark, are you telling me you don’t know who I am?”

Clark. He rolled the name around his head. “Clark” It slipped past his lips. Hmm, not entirely strange, he could live with it. He didn’t question that it was his name. Now that he was fully awake, and had given his mind time to process the current situation, he was able to recognize the care with which he’d been treated. His wounds had all been tended to, freshly bandaged, and for someone who’d been in bed for two days, he felt fairly clean. There was no reason to second guess the name with which his caregivers addressed him. If they called him Clark, then Clark he must be.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t remember who I am.” He hoped to reassure the man but it only brought further worry to the face that looked upon him with so much concern.

“You don’t remember who you are, or who I am, and I suppose who …”

“I don’t remember much of anything, really. I can—“He quickly ran through random information in his head. Facts about the Earth, the theory of relativity, the law of gravity, theory of evolution, string theory, derivatives, Kant, Nietzsche, Marx, Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Austin, “I remember things about the world. Science, literature, music … all the knowledge I’ve ever absorbed, I suppose. But I’m sorry to say, I have no memory of people from my life. Or, of the life I’ve lived up until now.”

The man looked about ready to collapse into the chair, he supposed, left vacant by the woman he’d heard upon waking.

“Oh, my poor, baby.” Both their heads swiveled to the door, his more slowly, having learned his lesson.

A beautiful woman stood looking at him with teary eyes, a hand covering her mouth as though to hold back a sob.

He wanted to comfort her, to ease her pain. It was a need in him. As she neared him on unsteady legs, her red hair fell under a stream of light filtering through the slightly parted curtains. It glowed. A memory broke loose.

“Clark, sweetie, please wait until the blades have stopped before licking the batter.” Red hair, he remembered soft red hair, smelling of strawberries.

“Mom?”

“Oh, my baby,” the woman fell to the side of the bed. Kneeling, leaning over him, wanting to hug him tight, but fearing injuring him further, her hands settled on his cheeks.

“Mom. You’re my mother and that would make you,” he turned towards the blonde man who stood, gripping the chair tightly, tears sliding down his cheeks. “Dad.”

“Yeah, son, I’m your Dad.”

“Oh.” Why didn’t he remember them, not really? What had happened to take him away from what looked to be the perfect family life?

“Why don’t I remember?” He hadn’t meant to ask, not wanting to hurt them more than he already had.

“Oh, sweetie, we wish we knew. Your Dad found you near the barn, near the fences leading to the cow pastures. You were wrapped in the afghan you’d covered yourself with the night before, and nothing else. Covered in scratches, your feet cut up and with the huge bumps on your head, we weren’t sure what to do, with the risk of a concussion looming.”

“Why didn’t you just take me to the hospital?”

They exchanged glances. Clark wasn’t sure he’d be getting an honest answer and was pleasantly surprised when he was proved wrong.

“It’s because of who you are. You see Clark, you were a gift, a beautiful, much loved wish granted to us by the heavens. Delivered to us under the cover of a meteor shower …”

*

Clark Kent alien overlord to be, or Kansas farmboy, he didn’t much care. As long as he got out of this alive.

Off all the days to reintroduce him to Smallville, it had to be the day the Talon, apparently the teen hot-spot, was being held up.

Martha Kent, Mom, held on to him tightly, as though to keep him from doing anything rash. What was she expecting? For him to leap in front of the bullets, did she think him mad?

They were all lucky the gunman forgot to aim. Either that or he wasn’t actually intending to hit anyone. Wrong again, he’d just been waiting for his target.

“Why, why did you have to go and do this Lana? Betray Whitney like this. Lex Luthor? You’re taking up with Lex Luthor? After all the Luthor’s have done to this town, to people like us?!”

Oh boy, this wasn’t looking good at all. Where were the police? This town did have a police station, right? He probably should have asked before he’d left the farm.

It seemed the petite, dark-haired girl had no sense. Her back talk was only angering the bulky man further, his gun was now right up in her face. Her eyes flicked to him and she glared. Glared? Why the heck would she be glaring at him?

“Do I know her?” He whispered to his mom, as quietly as he could, to avoid drawing the attention of the mad man, who he now knew to be Jiff. Who names their child after a peanut butter brand?

“Her name is Lana Lang. She used to live next door to us and you kind of dated her.”

Oh. Huh. He couldn’t see it. She seemed too much the manipulative damsel-in-distress type. He couldn’t imagine her holding his interest for any length of time. He must have been desperate.

“Could you tell me why she’s glaring at me?”

Sighing, “She’s probably expecting you to do something.” Ah, yes, they’d mentioned his former tendency to act the part of a hero. Trouble is, bullets don’t bounce off him now, but the gunman was looking ready to empty some loads.

Taking a deep breath for fortification, he pulled himself free of his mother’s death grip. “Clark! Clark, get down here!” She hissed quietly.

Looking down at her, he offered a bold smile. “Don’t worry. I’ve got this covered.”

Walking with what surmounted to a case of stupid bravery, he approached their captor. “Jiff, right?”

Brilliant opening there, Kent. It’s a wonder you haven’t been tapped for hostage negotiating.

The bulk swung around, gun in hand, pointing at his chest now. Not exactly what Clark was working towards, but he supposed he’d achieved his objective of freeing the girl Lang from Jiff’s clutches.

“Kent. Whitney told you to take care of her, is this taking care of her?” Okay, not only had he managed to garner Jiff’s attention, but his anger as well. So, not good.

“Honestly, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’m sure we can talk about this like civilized people. Put the gun down and I’ll treat you to a cup of coffee while you tell me what’s wrong.” There, he thought that was a reasonable request. Guess not.

Ow, that hurt! Gun pressed right up against his trachea, Clark was certain Jiff was going to manage to puncture a hole in his neck without firing a bullet. Luckily, he was spared the agony of such an act.

Lana Lang to the rescue, she’d smashed a coffee cup over the man’s head. Clark would have gone for something bigger, but it at least got Jiff to drop the gun.

Poor Lana though, she received a fist across the side of her face for her efforts. So not cool, hitting a girl, he tackled the lunatic in retribution.

His feet, even through cushioned work boots, were still sore, the sharp pressure of shattered glass beneath his shoes aggravated his previous injuries and had him twisting his foot in such a way that he managed to sprain his right ankle. Falling, he took Jiff with him.

Jiff got in a few lucky shots and even though he was wider and chunkier than Clark was, he had the advantage of speed, and greater mental wit. Soon enough, Jiff was prone on the floor, the gun he’d used to threaten every one turned on him.

“Mom, I’m all right. I just need to get my feet up on something.” He wasn’t exactly all right, but he’d keep telling her that to stop her from fussing, and worrying.

It had been a week since they’d told him of how he’d found them. At first he’d not believed the Kent’s entire retelling of his life. Though, really, there had been no reason to suspect such a far-out story. When you eliminate all other possibilities, the impossible is the only thing probable. Or something like that.

Plus, it was hard to refute a talking wall with lights and pictographs supporting his ancestry.

All of that meant nothing now, because he was no longer invulnerable or super powered all because of a father who was reaching from beyond the grave to teach him a lesson, and as a result, he was in a world of pain. He needed a hot bath for sore muscles and some pain meds. Really, really, strong pain meds.

Mother’s are the best. Mind-reading, nurturing geniuses. A nice hot bath later, he was in bed, ankle wrapped, ribs taped, bruises iced, and a mug of hot cider and some ginger snap cookies at his bed side.

“You are to rest, understood?”

“Promise. No underhanded studying will be done.” He gave her a flash of teeth, which always seemed to get her to smile.

Laughing, she patted his head, gave a quick peck and was out of the room. Leaving him to eat, sip and then doze in medicated bliss.

*

Hours later, having tended to all pertinent matters, and finished checking up on Clark, Martha settled down with a mug of tea herself when she heard a knock.

“Mrs. Kent, good afternoon,” Without waiting for a return greeting, Lex pushed the screen door open and entered, “I was hoping to catch Clark. I heard he was in town today. I was sorry I missed him.”

“I’m afraid you’ve heard wrong Lex, Clark’s been sick in bed all week, as I’ve been telling you every day you’ve visited.” It was a blatant lie. Clark had taken down a gunman, in the Talon, gotten injured for his efforts. The town was fawning over him like they’d never done before. All Lex had to do was ask the countless witnesses, or Lana.

But she had to keep Lex away. Clark, Kal-El, had left to save Lex from whatever calamity the young billionaire had managed to get himself into and this time he hadn’t returned whole. To that effect, she felt her rudeness could be excused.

“I need to start working on dinner. Was there something else I could help you with?” She asked, as she turned her back to him and began pulling out pots and pans.

Frustrated at the blatant lie she’d fed him and taking Mrs. Kent’s not-so-subtle ‘get lost’, Lex turned to leave when he spotted a familiar throw. It was in his hands before he’d even realized he’d taken the few short steps into the family room to retrieve it.

“Lex?” Martha, although never as distrusting of the young man as Jonathan was, had always felt a bit uncomfortable in his presence. She wasn’t entirely unaware of how he looked at Clark, and the obsessive attention with which he took in every nuance of her son had always been disconcerting.

Grinning a tad menacingly, Lex fed her alarm. “I don’t know if Clark told you that I was a sickly child before the meteor shower; weak and easily affected by the conditions of my environment. Allergies, scents in particular were the worst because they would often trigger my asthma. My mother countered this by having a line of specialized house hold and personal products made, just for me. My shampoos, to my soaps, house hold cleaners and detergent.”

He brought the afghan, still in his hands, to his face. It smelled of all things familiar. Clark, who’d used it last and the softener used on his sheets. The one Enrique had used to wash the throw before folding and leaving it at the end of his bed, while Clark had slept.

Staring her down, “I still use most of them. The detergent in particular is my favorite. Not only does it double as a fabric softener but it has the most unique of smells, fresh and clean, almost of the outdoors and something decadent. I’ve never quite been able to categorize it until I met Clark. It’s unique. There’s nothing else like it.” While she watched, he brought it back to his nose for another deep inhalation. “Clark wore this the day he came to me.”

“I’ve told you Cl-“

“You’ve told me lies and for a moment I almost believed them. Foolish of me, but it seems to go along with the repetitive attempts on my life.”

Unwilling to let go of the only evidence he had of Clark’s most recent save, he went on the offensive, finally. “Your son saved my life. I remember falling, gasping for breath and in terrible pain, then nothing. I’m certain I was close to death. I don’t know what Clark did and neither do my doctors. The poison they found in the drink I’d been sipping before my collapse is supposed to be fast acting and fatal. I shouldn’t be alive. It’s not the first time that’s been the case when Clark’s been involved.”

“Dad confessed the next day to the attempt on my life, along with the murders of my grandparents. Of course, today he woke up recanting that statement, having no recall of how he’d even arrived at his current accommodations. The Metropolis holding cells aren’t exactly up to Luthor standards.”

Martha, heart pounding attempted to sell the fabrication she and Jonathan had built.

“Lex, Clark couldn’t have saved you. Even if he had been well enough to make the trip up to the castle how could he have possibly done what you’re implying?”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Kent. You tell me. How does Clark do any of things Clark does? By the way, how’s the bump on his head looking?”

Her heart stuttered. He wasn’t letting go, and Martha, never much better at lying then her son, did the only thing she could. “I really think that you need to leave now, Lex.”

Clearly having worn out his welcome, Lex gave her a sharp nod before exiting the room and heading out the front door.

The floorboards above creaked. He paused with his hand on the screen door, “My father’s up for murder charges. Now that he’s pleading not-guilty it’ll go to full trial, Ms. Sullivan and Clark are to be subpoenaed.” Tilting his head to the side, he smiled sharply and said, “One way or another I will see Clark. You won’t be able to hide him from me forever.”

Then he was gone. It wasn’t until she could no longer hear the car’s purr did feet clumsily clamber down the stairs.

“Mom? I thought I heard someone else, everything all right?”

Looking up, she wanted to weep at the sight of her boy. Bruised and battered, limping a bit, bed is exactly where he should be. The lie they’d used so often in the past to keep people away, while they regrouped, had become the truth. Clark was unwell.

“It’s all right, sweetie. Go back upstairs and rest, you need to keep weight off that leg and I’m sure your ribs will appreciate it too.”

A soft smile and a head bob were her only answers before he turned around and using the railing, limped his way back up the stairs and to bed.

“Martha, was that Luthor’s car I saw speeding out of here? “

She’d heard Jonathan stomping his feet outside before entering, but she’d not turned to greet him. Instead she stood staring at the stairs when she whispered, “We’ve got to send him away.”

It wasn’t at all what he’d been expecting. “Martha?” Moving around her, he rested one hand on her shoulder while using the other to tilt her chin up. “Martha, what’s wrong?”

Glaring at him, “What’s wrong? What’s wrong??!!”

Pushing away, “Our super-powered, invulnerable son is no longer invulnerable, which we’ve dealt with a time or two before, but this, Jonathan,” near tears, “he doesn’t remember us. He doesn’t remember who he is. How can we protect him, how can we keep him safe, how can he keep himself safe if he doesn’t know what and who to protect himself from?”

“Martha, he’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. It’s just a matter of time.” He tried to reassure her.

“Jonathan! Lex Luthor has been on our door step three times a day, every day, for the last nine days. He’s left on his own, or when I’ve asked, but there will come a time when he won’t, when he’ll push past us to get to Clark. What do we do then?”

For the first time, Martha was genuinely frightened of Lex. He seemed unhinged, no longer cautious or hiding his interest in Clark. She was terrified for her son, who no longer knew enemy from friend.

Was Lex their enemy now?

“Like hell he’s getting to Clark. He can try but he’s not getting a foot past the front door from now on.”

Foolish man, has he learned nothing of the Luthors after all this time? “He’s going to subpoena Clark. Lionel is going to trial; Clark and Chloe are to be Lex’s star witnesses.”

Jonathan pulled her into a hug. She shuddered into his shoulder, “He’s going to see Clark in spite of all our efforts.”

“He won’t, not if we don’t allow for it.” He was so adamant, so sure. But she knew the futility of going against people like Lex more than Jonathan ever could. She was a city girl, after all.

“It’ll be a court order, Jonathan, he’ll be legally required to appear.”

The chest below her cheeks took a deep breath. “Is this why you want to send him away?”

“Jon, our son can get hurt now, in every way imaginable. He’s vulnerable physically, mentally, and emotionally. He’s so quick to trust. He says ‘Mom’ the way he did that very first time.” She loved and hated that in equal measures. Loved how he brought back memories of a time when all she had to do was lift him onto her lap, wipe away his tears, and offer him his favorite cookies to rid him of all his problems. Hated that it was a constant reminder of how that was no longer the case.

“You and I both know the only reason we ever stayed in Smallville, despite all the dangers it brought, meteor mutants and the meteor rocks alike, was for the farm.” She pulled back a bit to look at Jonathan while she setup her case.

“He doesn’t know how to do his chores anymore. He doesn’t remember how to work the machines or the routines involved. But I caught him doing graduate-level calculus and bio-chemistry in his room with ease. He’s our son, but he’s not, and we can’t protect him if he stays here.”

“Whether he’s strong or not, he still intervenes when someone’s in danger. You weren’t there, Jonathan, you didn’t watch as he tackled the gunman, and feel your heart stop because you knew that if the gun went off, your son could die. We were lucky that all he managed was a few bruises, cracked ribs and a sprained ankle. It could have been so much worse. Smallville will always have someone in need of rescuing; I won’t have Clark putting himself in danger like that again. It’s bad enough with Lex hounding us everywhere we turn, but …” choking back a sob.

“I want my son to be safe, and that’s not possible as long as he’s in this state. He needs time to recuperate in peace. He can’t have that here. I’m sending him to Josephine.” She waited for his answer.

“Is she back in Metropolis?” Obviously, Jonathan wasn’t willing to think too far out of the box, she was sorry to forcibly push him out.

“No, she’s not in Metropolis. You know that she isn’t. I’m sending Clark to England. She’ll be traveling this summer, Clark can join her. The idea is to give him enough time and space to recuperate that by the time Lex tracks him down, or knows to track him down, he’ll be recovered.”

“Martha, if his powers come back while he’s there …”

“We’ve spoken to him about them, and his origins. He knows to be cautious and careful. It was why we rehashed everything, instead of giving him the time to recover it all on his own. We can’t trust him with all of that, and then believe him incapable of handling his powers when they return. The information is just as dangerous, more so now in the absence of physical evidence of his alien nature.”

“Then why not let him stay here?”

“You know trouble has a way of finding him in Smallville.”

“Martha have you thought this through? Really thought this through? Can you send our son away for weeks, maybe months, and be okay with it?”

“Of course I’m not okay with this, but we have no other viable choice.” Stepping out of his arms and heading for the stairs. “A private jet will be arriving in Gotham to pick him up. I need you to drive him down to meet it. Lex might come by again. He’s used to not seeing you in the house or the barn, knowing you’re often out in the fields. So if he doesn’t see you he won’t suspect anything, not the case with me.”

“You’ve already planned this, without discussing it with me?”

She ignored the hurt in his voice, “I had to. If I’d left it up to discussion, you would have talked me out of it. This way, the choice has already been made. The jet should be arriving in four hours. Enough time to get you both to Gotham, if you head out now.”

“When did you start planning this?” He followed closely behind her as she made her way to their room. She pulled out the suitcases she’d packed for Clark while he’d been bathing.

“I’ve been thinking about it off and on for a long time now, with every danger he’s gone up against. His most recent tumble with Smallville’s madness clinched it. I was on the phone speaking to Jo while you were wrapping up Clark’s ribs.”

“What about the subpoena?”

“I’ll have Dad’s lawyers prepare something declaring Clark unfit. We’ll provide medical evidence that Clark is in no state to testify, his amnesia being one of the things mentioned. Lex won’t need to see it, he’ll just know of it …”

Conceding defeat, Jonathan pulled her into a hug. He’d always considered that they were strong as long as they stood together, but here they were preparing to send their son away.

“We’re sending him away so that we can make him strong again. This is for the best, Jon, trust me, please.”

“Always, woman” Squeezing a bit tighter, he let go, “I better get these in the truck. Why don’t you go and wake him up?”

“No need.” Clark stood at the door, fully dressed, backpack hanging from one hand.

“Clark, sweetheart, I, we…” Martha didn’t know what to say, how to explain why she was sending him away when everything was already strange and new to him.

“It’s okay I heard what you told Dad. I understand.” Oh, my precious, precious boy. She’d forgotten his greatest strengths were his heart, his spirit, and those things were still whole, even if Lex Luthor had taken everything else.

“I’m going to miss you.” Clark meant it, memories, or lack of them aside, his heart loved this woman with all the abandon of a child’s love, that he felt and remembered still.

Thin, delicate arms wrapped around him tightly, her size concealing the strength the small woman was capable of summoning. “It is going to be all right, Mom. You’ll see. Plus, I’m sure you and Dad could use some alone time together.”

“Never. We could never use some time away from you” Martha whispered shakily. Pulling away before she completely broke down, she gently nudged him down the stairs and out the front door. She was afraid the longer their goodbye stretched, the less likely she would be to let him go.

“Remember your manners. Don’t behave as if you were raised in a barn. If your powers return before you do, be careful and cautious in your use of them. Don’t allow yourself to become dependent on them, not knowing if they’re back to stay. Your Aunt Jo has been briefed on everything, so she’ll probably be more prepared than you. Nothing really ever fazes her. She’s my older sister, shorter than me, but with the same red hair and blue eyes. You’ll recognize her on the spot. Take care of each other, please.”

“I will, Mom. I promise.”

They were at the truck’s door. He’d just seated himself when she pulled him in for another quick hug and a soft kiss on the cheek. “I love you, always remember that.”

“I could never forget.” But he had.

Smiling sadly in reply, she closed the door shut, and waved her heart goodbye.

*

“Mr. Kent, we’ll be landing in ten minutes. If you could please put your seatbelt on, it would be very much appreciated.”

Clark’s attention was unwillingly diverted from the scenery below. When they’d taken off his re-remembered fear of heights had kicked in. Eyes shut he’d not opened them until they were up in the air and had leveled off. Much of the early part of his journey had been spent overcoming said fear, the remainder of it in awe of what he’d nearly missed out the window.

The earth was a stunning place. The knowledge of its entire natural and manmade wonders flashed through his mind’s eye, but what lay beneath him … he could have missed, because of an unwarranted fear. It helped set a precedence for how he planned to handle the days and months to come.

This world, and the one of his dead planet, was both new and foreign to him. He would learn as best he could from those willing to teach him, and allow his heart to guide him along his way. He hadn’t been wrong to trust the Kents, and he’d like to think a similar astuteness would carry him through the journey ahead.

Stepping off the plane and into the waiting car, he remembered his Dad’s parting words. They’d not said anything to each other on the drive to Gotham; as a result, they were even more valued.

“We love you. Remember that. Everything else will come back in time. If you run into any trouble, tell your Aunt Jo, she has a good head on her shoulders, as crazy as she may seem at times. If you need us, call, we may not be there as quick as either of us would like, but we will find our way to you.”

He wasn’t alone, no matter how much he felt like it. He just had to remind himself of that and everything else would be bearable.

*

‘Bearable’ had been left behind from the moment he’d entered the Rolls Royce and was greeted with open arms and warm kisses.

Two weeks later, sitting across from Aunty Jo, he was feeling guilty thinking himself quite content and happy. Mom and Dad were great, but Aunt Jo was a real trip.

She was … words could do her no justice. He watched as she reamed into a business associate on the phone for interrupting their late breakfast. Clark really shouldn’t be taking as much enjoyment as he was, but he wasn’t particularly fond of Sir. Hardwick after his daughter nearly mauled him at the fund raiser he’d attended with his Aunt just the night before.

“Sorry, darling, some people simply lack any sense. So where were we, ah, Paris? What do you think?”

Sighing, he popped the last of his croissant into his mouth, chewing slowly as he considered his options. He didn’t want to waste his time abroad. As much as he was enjoying his time with his aunt, and knowing she was gaining as much joy from their time together as he was, he did intend to return to Smallville at some point. So rather than simply coasting on his aunt’s generosity he wanted to make better use of his time, by either working or studying. Perhaps both, depending on where he decided to attend school.

From what he could recall, he was a year short from graduating. No point letting a little thing as total amnesia get in the way of that.

“I think it’s something I’d like, as long as the offer to earn my keep by working at the gallery still stands as well.”

“But of course, child. I appreciate a good work ethic in anyone. Plus, I couldn’t imagine Jonathan and Martha Kent’s child demanding anything less of me.”

He blushed. Clark was always blushing around his aunt. She was constantly bragging about him to whoever would listen. It was more than a little embarrassing, but she derived such pleasure from it he’d stopped asking her to stop.

Leaning over, he hugged the spitfire of a woman. His mother had described her to a tee. Only five feet, but with a head full of fiery red hair that flamed bright, sparkling eyes that dared you to underestimate her, and a voice that managed to be both soothing and authoritative. She made you feel strong by mere association.

It wasn’t surprising when his voice wobbled a bit as he whispered into her shoulder, “I’m going to miss you.”

“Oh hush. You won’t have the time or chance to. You’ll be so busy most of the time and when you have even a moment to spare, I’ll be there to whisk you off for a weekend elsewhere. Wonderful thing about Europe is that you’ve got an abundance of cultural hotspots just at your doorstep.”

“Well since you’ve already planned on whisking me away, I guess I should go and get packed. Classes start on Monday.”

“Already done, Nigel has your things waiting. The jet will be leaving in an hour.”

Raising an eyebrow at her he asked, “Are you trying to get rid of me, dear Aunt? This wouldn’t have anything to do with the dashing gentleman I saw come calling last Thursday, would it?”

Her cheeks bloomed with spots of red while she batted at him with her dainty hands. “You mischievous boy, “she reprimanded, while mumbling to herself, “mischievous and all too observant.”

“I heard that!” He hollered back from inside his room. Coming out, he held jacket and backpack in hand, the only things Nigel had left behind for him, and had to duck a decorative cushion that was lobbed his way.

Laughing, he strode over to her and bent down to offer a loud kiss on her cheek. “Don’t worry; your secret is safe with me. I won’t tell Mom about it before you do.”

“Who said there’s anything to tell?”

“You’re blushing, Aunty Jo.”

“Go on, you little rascal.” Her laughter followed him out the door and down the hall. Knowing she wasn’t one for goodbyes he hadn’t expected her to follow him out, especially considering she’d be in Paris in two weeks time.

“Aunt Jo?” The elevator dinged open, he asked the concierge to wait a moment.

She tugged at his shirt, an indication that she wanted him to bend down so their eyes were level. “Have a good time. I know your parents want you to spend this time away to try to remember, but I want you to spend it healing. You may not know what it is you need to heal from, but your soul and heart do. Give them the space and peace to. Don’t push too hard. And consider this a second a chance to enjoy life. You always looked too serious, like the weight of the world was on your shoulders. Even if it was at one time, it’s not anymore, at least not now. So, have fun. Please.”

It was the most serious she’d been with him his entire time with her. She’d told him shortly after meeting that the world was miserable and serious enough without any help from her. If she was going to do any aiding, it was for the side of frivolity and joy. People may think her off her rocker, but she’d die, perhaps an insane, but most definitely a happy biddy.

Clark didn’t like the change from her norm. Hugging her close, he reassured her, beaming smile firmly in place. “I don’t plan to have anything but fun. I think the side of frivolity could use another agent.”

Through a snort of laughter, she said, “Consider yourself recruited. Go out and conquer, make this old bat proud.”

Stepping into the elevator, he shot back. “You could never be old, dear aunt, batty, true, but never old.”

Having nothing to toss at him, she offered him a beaming smile of her own, while waving him off. “I’ll see you in two weeks, child. Be good. Remember to practice safe sex. I’ve left a few flavored unmentionables in your backpack, just in case.”

“Aunty Jo!!” The elevator doors closed on her maniacal laughter, leaving him to the longest and most uncomfortable elevator ride of his life.

*

“Excuse moi.”

Clark picked up the books he’d dropped while mumbling, “Another klutz moment. I wonder if I was always this challenged.”

“I’m sure that’s not the case, considering it was me who bumped into you.” Clark flicked his eyes up to see a book in his line of sight, his book.

Grabbing it, he looked past to see a smiling visage and offered an apology. “Regardless, I’m sorry and thank you.”

Having managed to pick up everything he’d dropped, Clark turned to leave.

“Please, could I have your name?”

Pausing, Clark looked at the stranger warily. He’d been in Paris long enough to know that people found him attractive, that meant a great many men hit on him as much as women, and as far as pick up lines went, that one hadn’t been particularly original.

Apparently, the stranger thought so too, “I’m sorry, that probably sounded all wrong. Not that I don’t think your attractive, but I’m just pleased to meet another American. My name’s Jason Teague.”

At least he was honest, Clark could admire that, but, “I’m not into giving out my name to strangers. Sorry.” He said it as politely as he could while walking away.

Sadly, he was stuck with one persistent sucker. “Well, how about a better intro then. I’m a college graduate estranged from my parents, currently searching for inspiration in the city of love.”

Clark looked at the man strangely but chose to ignore him. It wasn’t as if he was doing or saying anything offensive. He’d get tired and move on when Clark failed to respond.

“I used to love football, was pretty good but got injured and well. People treat you differently when you can’t bring home the big wins and titles.”

Getting annoyed by the steady flow of personal information he did not want nor need to know, Clark asked, a bit sharply, “Do you honestly have nothing better to do, that you’re wasting both our times harassing me?”

“Not at the moment, and I was being honest when I said I’m really pleased to meet another English-speaking American, and that I think you’re very attractive.”

Blushing, he really wished he’d outgrow that, Clark offered a reluctant, “Thank you”, and was going to follow it with another ‘get lost, please’ when he heard his name being yelled across the street, for all of Paris to hear.

“Clark!”

Clark turned in time to avoid his classmate, as he came hurtling towards him. Maurice bent over trying to catch his breath. “I’ve been chasing you down since you left the class. You move like the wind.”

Knowing it to be an exaggeration, as his powers had yet to return, he asked, “Is everything all right?”

“Oui, oui. I only wished to return your notes. You will need them to study for our exams this weekend. Marie gave them to me to pass along to you yesterday, but I forgot. I am terribly sorry for my forgetfulness.”

“It’s okay. I wouldn’t have looked at them last night anyways. Thank you for getting them to me now.”

“Well, I’ve got to go. Ronald is taking me out for dinner tonight, our six month anniversary. Thank you for helping him to plan it.” Maurice held up a hand to silence Clark’s words, “Ah, ah, ah. No point in denying it, mes amis, I know my beau, he is loving, but not terribly romantic. Thank you from the both of us.” He stretched, coming only to Clark’s shoulders, to place a peck on his cheek. “I will see you tomorrow. We will tell you how wonderfully your plans went.”

“Au revoir!”

And Maurice was off. Clark couldn’t help but feel a bit warmed. From the moment he’d met him, he’d reminded him of someone he knew to be close to him. All he got were flashes of blonde hair. At first, he’d thought it may have been his Dad, despite there being no comparison he could divine, but the more time he spent with Maurice, the more certain he was that it was someone else that was near and dear. Just now he was certain he saw an almost feminine figure juxtaposed over Maurice, blonde wispy hair, flying in all directions, the oddest combination of colors and designs for an outfit, and what he thought to be a flash from a camera lens. The image had left almost immediately, but even without a face to match everything else, it was more then he’d ever remembered before.

“So, Clark, is it? Does Clark have a last name?”

Blinking, “You’re still here. Why?” Lost in his thoughts, he’d forgotten about his unwelcome shadow.

“Well, I’ve got a proposition for you…”

*

Children ran across the street haphazardly, his camera caught every moment of the uninhibited joy, as they shared a laugh. Turning to the mother, who watched over them from a distance, he thanked her for allowing him to take the shots. “Merci.”

“Da rien.” She said with a smile.

Walking away, Clark was distracted by a bulletin with an enlarged copy of the cover of Forbes magazine on which was the picture of a bald man, “Lex Luthor” he read.

Flashes of a scarred lip, felt only once, a body not breathing, not living, filled with water the first time, filled with poison the last.

Hands grabbed his shoulders, startling him out of whatever dazed state he’d been in.

“Oh, sorry to interrupt. You’re American, right?” The voice registered through the fog and cleared away the remnants of pale skin.

“Yes” he answered, interest piqued.

“Great. Can I ask you a big favor?” Hopeful eyes plead with him.

Always a sucker for the needy, Clark relented, reluctantly. “Sure … as long as it doesn’t get me arrested.”

The man shook his head in the negative, as though to add weight to his words. “No, no, nothing at all of an illegal nature. I just need to pick your brain. I’m supposed to meet my, uh, my boyfriend here. Well, he’s not really my boyfriend, even though we spend every waking moment together. See, we met two months ago today on this exact street corner, and I bought him something to mark the occasion. I wanted to get your opinion.”

Even more curious now, Clark asked that he continue. “All right. Go ahead, ask away.”

The man unzipped his jacket to pull out a black biking helmet.

Grinning now, “I think that would probably be the last thing he would be expecting, any particular reason for your choice?”

“Well, I know it doesn’t really scream ‘romance’, but see, the first time we met, he wanted nothing to do with me. But I knew he was the one, so I followed him around, intending to wear him down. Unfortunately, he’s kind of stubborn and just when I thought ‘This is it. He’s going to clobber me’, you see he’s not only brilliantly smart, gorgeous beyond reason, but he’s built strong as well, this Vespa clips us. We’d walked onto the cobbled streets without realizing it. Well, I go tumbling down, taking him with me, and he falls awkwardly on an old football injury. Feeling guilty, he spent the next five hours at the hospital with me. I wasn’t above using the situation to my advantage, and weaseled a date out of the incident.”

Clark, trying to look disapproving reprimanded “That doesn’t sound like a very gentlemanly thing to do.”

“You’d understand if you met him.”

“So did he agree?”

“He did. It was a perfect night, wobbling aside, and things kind of clicked. Once he dropped his defenses a little and I stopped coming on so strong.”

“So things clicked?”

“Yeah, things clicked.”

Smiling openly now, he jested, “A case of love at first crash?”

“Yeah. Well, for me it was anyway, but I’m just an impulsive kind of guy.”

“Well, how does he feel?”

“I don’t know. He doesn’t really talk about it. I think he, uh, I think he got hurt by somebody. He doesn’t really talk about his past or his home.”

Clark stared into hazel eyes, completely different from his own. “Why the helmet? It’s not exactly normal, commemorating your getting together by something that almost did you both harm.”

“While he was sitting by my bedside at the hospital he’d revealed that he’d been wanting to ride a Vespa from the moment one had zipped past him his first day in Paris, something about a forgotten rush, but after the close call he was rethinking the idea. It was the first bit of personal information he’d shared without any coercing on my part. I don’t regret the minor tumble, it got me a date with him, and so I don’t want it to be the cause of him giving up on something he’d wanted to do for so long.”

Reaching out, Clark rubbed at the helmet, brushing over the hands still holding it close, “So is it just the helmet and a ride, or do you have something else in mind?”

“It’s for a weekend trip to Nice, if he’s … if he’s interested.”

Clark was taken aback, he shouldn’t have been considering but, he leaned forward, let his lips brush slowly and softly against familiar lips, and pulling away with a soft smile on his face said, “I’d love to go to Nice with you, Jason. Just remind me to call Aunt Jo to give her a heads-up. If she finds me missing upon arrival, she’d more than likely have MI5 on the hunt for me.”

Jason, pleased with Clark agreeing, just wished him a “Happy Anniversary” before returning to some more kissing.

*

It was a beautiful church, large but not uncomfortably so. In no rush, having already warned Jason that he had a project to complete for his art history class and to stay away, Clark slowly walked down the hallway at the rear of the chapel.

He’d been dreaming of this church, something from here had called to him. A long forgotten memory, one he was certain was not his own, filled with guilt and remorse for a life sacrificed.

Turning a corner, he’d arrived. He stood before an altar, on the ground of which was the engraving of a female warrior, fashioned out of brass, wearing a regal dress, holding a sword in one hand and a shield in the other.

A flash of a woman being burned at the stake ripped through his mind. Kneeling, he gasped for breath, almost feeling the burn of the flames on his skin, but not quite. He felt the heat from a distance. It wasn’t he, who was burning.

Shaking his limbs loose, to rid him of whatever ghost had decided to haunt him this day, he turned his attentions to the engraving. Smallville and his life there would have to wait, accustomed now to the random cropping of memories and sometimes the backlash of pain he endured from the remembering, it was second nature to push the incident aside to get on with what he had come to do.

Rolling out his parchment, he pulled out a box of charcoal to start his frottage. The face that was revealed meant nothing to him, but when the shield was completed, he gasped. On the shield was a symbol consisting of two forms, coiled together from the hip down, heads rising to strike? No, they were joined but not in battle.

Mesmerized, Clark reached down to touch. As he neared, the symbol began to glow and when his fingers finally touched, the pure white light stretched to engulf him. His eyes did not waver from the symbol. The light howled around him, circling him, tossing his hair, pulling at his clothes, rising to the ceiling before it became blinding.

In the epicenter, Kal-El watched as pale fingers wrapped around a stone of power.

*

“Go away!”

Clark pulled the pillow over his head, which was in agony. He felt flushed and his lungs weren’t cooperating with the whole breathing thing. The last thing he wanted to deal with was uninvited guests.

The banging continued, persistent and loud. Frustrated, Clark sat up in bed, a little surprised to find himself naked, but, feeling as unhinged as he did, he didn’t spare too much time on that minor fact. Pulling the sheet up to wrap around his waist, he headed towards the door, ignoring the charcoal rubbing of the Countess Theroux that was prominently displayed on his easel, across the room.

Not bothering with the chain, he unlocked the deadbolt and swung the door open, about to give a brilliant display of rude American behavior.

“Jason?”

Jason confused by his confusion, asked, “I know punctuality isn’t really your thing, but you were supposed to meet me at 10, it’s now 12. You didn’t even call to say you’d be late. I was worried.”

Clark was unsure how to reassure Jason, when Clark wasn’t entirely sure of what had transpired since he’d been at the chapel, and really, he was getting more than sick and tired of his memory being messed with. Chalking it up to interference from Jor-El, he ignored the lapse for now.

“I’m sorry to have worried you. Could you wait downstairs for me, please? I’ll take a quick shower and be down in a few minutes.”

Not waiting for an answer, Clark closed the door and leaned against it for a few minutes. “Roll with the punches, Kent. All you can do is roll with the punches.”

Refusing to allow this to derail his progress, Clark dropped the bed sheet and headed for the shower.

Standing, he allowed the hot water to soothe away the aches his body remembered but his mind had forgotten. Stepping out just as the hot water began to cool, he slicked his hair back while he walked past the mirror, when something caught his eye.

Turning his back, for better viewing, he was floored at the black tattoo spanning it. Two heads were at either end of his shoulders, while their joined lower half met at the bottom of his spine.

A trickle of memory filtered through the shock. The church wasn’t the first time he’d seen this symbol, he’d seen them once before, when his parents had told him of the life he was born to instead of the one he’d fallen into, “The Kawatche caves, Namen and Segeth.”

*

Legs sore from his long run, Clark leaned up against the bridge he’d come upon. Running had become a cathartic habit he’d picked up while in Europe, he was at the most peace when his legs were pumping so hard that they threatened to fall off, and breathing was something he had to work at. He often pushed himself until his body could no longer handle the abuse, the pain unfamiliar, but the motions, somehow, were a bit like coming home.

When his parents had found him, a few days after his abrupt return from Paris, wiped out from a particularly hard run, they’d told him it was something he had done often and freely when he’d had his super-speed. He supposed even a total memory wipe could not strip him of some habits.

Tilting his head back he allowed the gentle evening breeze to cool his heated face. Having regained some of his strength, he used the bridge’s railing to do a few cool down stretches and let his mind wander.

“You’re going back because of this?” He felt Aunty Jo’s hand gently slide down his back, “Does it hurt at all?”

“Yes. No.”

“And you have no recollection of how you got it?”

“No.”

“But you have an idea of where it came from?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you going back, Clark?”

“I already told you, I n-“

“You’ve told me an answer that will appease your parents. But I see you, I see you. Why are you running away from him?”

“I don’t know what you’re-“

“Mr. Teague called, frantic with worry.”

“This has nothing to do with him. I’m going back because I need answers.”

In front of him now, on tip-toes, reaching up to cup his cheeks, she stared into his eyes. “This is about him as much as it is about needing answers.”

“This has absolutely nothing to do with him.”

“Then why not have left him a note? It would have spared him a great deal of anguish, unless your intent was to leave him bitter.”

“Aunty Jo, I’m going to be late for my flight.”

“I own the jet. It will wait.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to be honest with yourself.”

“I’m an alien, a freak, who has no recollection of who he is. A normal life, a normal relationship isn’t for me. I guess I forgot that along with my memories. This,” Clark looked over his shoulder and into the floor length mirror to stare at his newly acquired tattoo, “was a reminder of that.”

“You are no more a freak than any teenage boy is. Who you are is Jonathan and Martha Kent’s son, William Clark’s grandson, and my nephew. You’re a strong, morally conscious, empathetic, intelligent young man. These traits are what define you. Not your biology.”

“Those are just kind words. I can’t build a life on them. How would I explain this to Jason? How could I possibly expect him to live a life with the policy ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’?”

“You don’t.”

“Aunty Jo?”

“You don’t ask him to accept such a policy. You tell him the truth.”

“But Mom and Dad …”

“Had the best of intentions but they were wrong. To instill the fear of discovery in you to such a degree that you would consider isolating yourself, rather than reaching out to form attachments, was a failing on their part.”

“They did the best they could, considering my freakishness.”

“Being different doesn’t make you a freak, it makes you an individual. I know they did the best they could, but a great many of their decisions on how to raise you were based on their fears and not on good judgment.”

She held up a finger to his lips to silence his defense of his parents, “Don’t interrupt. You are meant to love and be loved. But loving someone involves trusting them, the two go hand in hand, you already know this. It’s why you’re running away from Jason. You can’t be honest with him so you’re unwilling to form any kind of a permanent bond. What I’m telling you is, follow your heart. If you are in love with him, tell him. Don’t run.”

“I don’t know if I am in love with him.”

“Then go. Go back to Smallville, find your answers and use the time to figure our where your heart lies. Just be sure of the consequences of your actions. In the search for certainties, are you willing to risk losing the love and happiness you’ve found here?”

He’d thought he’d been brave coming back to Smallville, in search of the reason for the symbol on his back and what it actually meant. He’d thought it was about heading towards something, mainly answers, but also a bit of freedom from being the lost victim.

But now he wondered if he hadn’t merely been fooling himself. Was he really running towards something or running away from someone?

He knew how Jason felt; the man had gone out of his way to make sure Clark knew, yet, still uncertain of the depth of his own feelings, he’d refrained from similar declarations.

Clark enjoyed his time with Jason, he felt comfortable and cared for and very little effort was needed to make things work. He was certain relationships weren’t meant to be so easy, but theirs was, is, or had been before Clark had mucked it up.

Frustrated, he banged his head against the railing, only to stop when his head protested the abuse. Sighing in defeat, he rested his elbows on the railing, his head in his hands, and leaned over to stare at the river below. It was soothing, the running water almost hypnotizing.

Cold lips against his own, breath of life shared, blue eyes staring at him in wonder while an arm held them close. Pale, pale skin, a canvas waiting for him to mark, claim, it was the beginning of their destiny this time round, friendship of legend.

Screeching tires pulled him from this round of remembering, just in time to avoid the Porsche that came hurtling towards him. Clark watched frozen as the car crashed through the railing and over the bridge, would have stood their indefinitely if not for the strange familiarity of the surprised, slightly concerned, blue eyes that stared at him from behind the wheel. Taking a deep breath, he’d leapt into the river before his mind had a chance to register his actions.

The water was shockingly cold, but did little to slow him down. Kicking his tired legs fiercely, he’d reached the vehicle in seconds and saw that the driver had been knocked unconscious.

Fearing for the man’s life, Clark began tugging at the door with all his might. It didn’t budge, not even a bit. Knowing time was of the essence and running out of air fast, he swam around to the passenger side of the windshield and started kicking where a crack had formed, nothing happened. Struggling with the last of his air, he gave into the desperate rage that was consuming him and did a full body slam into the window, and was surprised when it shattered beneath him.

Not wasting any time pondering how that had happened, Clark swam in, and after a short struggle with the seatbelt was able to maneuver the driver out, being careful to avoid the broken edges of the windshield.

With a few hard kicks he breached the surface of the water and took huge gulps of the much needed air. Gasping, his limbs cramping, Clark managed to make the few strokes needed to drag him and the dead weight in his arms to shore.

Collapsing on the river banks he almost gave into his exhaustion, would have if not for the complete stillness of the man beside him. Pulling himself up and over the bald stranger, he turned him over and without pausing began CPR. The motions came to him with ease, his hands clasped over a strong chest, pushing down over and over, but it wasn’t until he’d bent to seal his lips over the strangers, and felt a scar, did the familiarity of the situation hit him. He knew these lips.

Startling clear blue eyes, staring out of a pale face, “I could have sworn I hit you.”

“If you had, I’d … I’d be dead.”

The intensity of the memory was too much to handle in his battered state, on the edge of losing consciousness his heart full of regret, he offered a silent apology to the still lifeless body beneath him before giving into oblivion.

*

It had been a week since Clark had returned.

Jonathan had stepped out of the house, ready to start on his chores hours before the sun was to rise, and found Clark sitting on the porch, stargazing.

He’d stood there staring, afraid to move, thinking he’d cracked under the pressure from missing and worrying about Clark that he’d imagined him into being.

A notion he was dissuaded of as strong arms wrapped around him in greeting. “It’s good to see you, Dad.”

Reassured by the solidity of the hug, he returned it with equal force, “You too, son, you too.”

As happy as he and Martha were about Clark’s coming home, both were weary at the absence of an explanation for the sudden and unannounced arrival.

They’d decided to let Clark tell them in his own time, and if that wasn’t quick enough for Martha, she’d ring Jo.

Jonathan would have left it at that if not for Clark’s recently remembered love of running. Clark had always enjoyed running, as much a part of him as his dark hair and bright green eyes, it didn’t surprise either of them when he’d returned from England and picked up the habit again.

Unfortunately, history had taught them that Clark’s runs rarely remained just runs, they often morphed into rescues. Something they weren’t willing to risk a now mortal son to.

Clark had in the past, and since his return from Europe, kept his runs to before sunrise or after sunset. When he’d slept in that morning they’d assumed that Clark would leave it for the evening, however, he’d left the house in the middle of the day and not returned, even hours later, apprehensive, Jonathan had gone to search for him.

With good reason it seemed.

He was scrambling out of the truck, down the incline and towards the river, the moment he’d caught sight of the splintered railing on the familiar bridge, instinctively knowing, that Clark was somehow involved.

He was in no way gladdened to be proven right. Heart in his throat, he approached Clark just as Lex, who was kneeling beside him, pulled a bloodied hand away.

Growling, “Get away from him!” he pushed the bald billionaire aside, and tried to take stock of Clark’s injuries. First of which was trying to determine the source of all the blood.

Carefully, Jonathan tugged off the torn and sopping wet long sleeved t-shirt Clark was wearing, nearly covered him back up at the mess his son was.

Eyes watering, hands shaking, he gently brushed his fingers down Clark’s left side. Glass splinters were imbedded in some wounds, the largest piece was near his hip bone, he was just a bloody, bruised mess.

“I think he’s dislocated his shoulder too.” The voice was cold, calculated and did not manage to hide the curiosity that always hid beneath the surface.

Ignoring Lex, he confirmed the dislocation, and added to the rest of Clark’s injuries, it just made getting Clark to the truck with minimal pain a near impossibility. He couldn’t do it on his own. Martha, he needed Martha, but he wasn’t willing to leave Clark behind with Lex to go back to the farm to get her.

“We need to get him medical care, and fast. He could be susceptible to infections along with injury now.”

Lex Fucking Luthor, at the center of all their problems, all of this could be laid at his feet, ‘This is all your fault.”

He didn’t need to know the details of what had happened, he knew this was Luthor’s fault. It was always their fault. He should have stopped Clark from speaking to Lex after their first encounter, he should have taken the truck back himself, gotten a restraining order slapped on the bald billionaire the second he tried to befriend his son.

Jonathan was close to hysteria.

Lucky for him, Lex was able to function past his own. “Be that as it may, Mr. Kent, it doesn’t negate the fact that Clark needs help. Now. We can go back to the farm and I can have a doctor come there, considering your aversion of hospitals.”

“Your money can’t fix this. You can’t fix this. I don’t want you anywhere near my son!”

Jonathan attacked, fists meeting with unrelenting flesh, releasing years of pent up anger and frustration at his inability to protect Clark from Lex.

Tired from the ordeal, Lex had not anticipated the assault, and after Jonathan’s initial blows was able to return in kind. He’d wanted to lay into Jonathan Kent since the moment they’d met and he’d judged him undeserving. True or not, it had angered him that this man stood between his and Clark’s friendship, had the power to tear their friendship apart, and was certain was integral to his and Clark’s eventual falling out.

Lex might have continued until all that was left of Jonathan was a mass of bruised flesh and broken bones, if not for the sudden jerking of Clark’s unconscious body, a few short feet away.

Landing one last hard hit to the stomach, Lex pushed off of Jonathan and onto unsteady legs. Abandoning all previous needs to impress this man, to earn his respect, he sneered, “Your son could be dying and instead of taking the hand that is offering help, you would choose to waste time fighting a battle you will lose.”

Not waiting for the farmer’s repetitive dig about his depravity, Lex limped his way to Clark’s body.

Dropping beside Clark, he did a quick assessment of his own. Hand on Clark’s head he could feel the fever that had settled in. Deciding not to waste anymore time, he placed a knee under Clark, to help lever him off the ground and with Clark’s back resting close to his, he slipped an arm across the broad chest and holding tightly pulled at Clark’s left shoulder. The body jerked only once, right before the near silent pop of his shoulder bone falling back into place.

Heavily breathing, he picked up Clark’s discarded shirt and began ripping at it, using huge pieces to cover the largest wounds, and the arms of the shirt for a temporary tourniquet, awkwardly pulling off his own to aid in the endeavor. Satisfied with his efforts, he pulled-pushed Clark into a sitting position and considered his options on getting him up the incline and into the truck.

Clark looked a bit thinner and felt lighter, but he was still taller than Lex, who wasn’t at his best, so it would be a struggle, regardless. Not impossible, but he was worried about further aggravating Clark’s injuries, not knowing if there were internal ones that accompanied the obviously unpleasant external ones.

“If you grab his left side and I grab his right, I think we’ll be able to manage.”

Jonathan’s quiet and rational voice caught him off guard, he was sure the man could go on ranting for days on end about the Luthor evil, unmindful to the world falling apart around him. Accepting the rare moment of sanity, Lex nodded his head in assent and wrapped his arm around Clark’s waist, following Jonathan’s lead. “One, two, three, heave.”

Steadying Clark, he wondered if it wouldn’t have been better for him to have simply attempted a fireman’s carry, or have had Jonathan hold his legs while he’d held Clark’s shoulders, there was too much jostling going on for him to be completely comfortable with their current attempt.

It wasn’t until he went to slide Clark in to the cab of the truck did he realize the reason for Jonathan’s preferred method. The elder Kent’s right hand was swollen to twice its normal size, and something looked broken. He felt no regret for being the cause. Lex had not been the instigator.

Knowing the futility of trying to convince Jonathan Kent that he was in no state to drive, Lex settled beside Clark, pulled him close and held him tight, hoping to limit the affects of unpaved country roads.

The ride had not done them any good, by the time they’d arrived Lex could barely keep himself up let alone Clark, and Jonathan looked to be no better.

“Jonathan! Clark!” Martha’s yell preceded the screen door banging open. Lex watched through half closed eyes as she ran down the stairs and towards Jonathan’s side of the car, followed shortly after by a blonde haired man, who he ignored, his attentions focused on Martha Kent and what she may have to say to him.

He didn’t have to wait long. “What have you done to them?”

It cut. He’d always believed that he’d had at least one Kent parent on his side, if he’d known how mistaken he’d been he might have given Clark a bit more leeway.

“I assure you, Mrs. Kent, this is not my doing.” Well that hadn’t been entirely truthful. Clark had jumped in to save him, instead of being run over this time, and gotten injured for his efforts, but Jonathan’s injuries were a result of his own idiocy and thus Lex was not liable. Apparently she didn’t see it that way.

“Please, leave. You aren’t welcome here anymore.”

Looking past him she continued, “Jason, please help Clark in, I’ll bring Jonathan.”

“No problem, Mrs. Kent.”

It was only then, as a he felt himself being dragged out and unceremoniously dumped on the ground did he take heed of the blonde man he’d earlier ignored. The face was familiar, but he could not place a name, easier to put a hit on someone when you had specifics. His body protested the abuse, and it was Luthor will alone that had him on his feet without showing any signs of his battered condition.

Reigning in his anger, he tried to address Mrs. Kent, when Clark moaned. He wouldn’t admit to anyone the shock of relief that spread through his being at the pain filled moan. He’d been worried when Clark had shown no signs of waking, this was reassuring.

“Clark, Clark, please, wake up.” Jason gently cupped Clark’s cheek and bent close to Clark’s ear.

Lex could not hear what was said, but it was good enough to garner a soft smile from the injured boy who had now opened his eyes. Clouded over with pain, they were still smiling.

“Jason, you idiot, what are you doing here?” Clark’s voice was horse, nothing close to his usual melodic timber, but the warmth he felt towards this Jason was clear. Lex frowned. When was the last time Clark had addressed him with such familiarity and affection?

“You didn’t think it would be that easy to get rid of me, did you?”

Unwilling to watch the intimacy of their exchange Lex took a few steps back, and caught sight of Martha’s eyes. ‘Please, leave’ she mouthed, apparently unwilling to interrupt the touching moment before them to get rid of him.

He was at an impasse.

Lex had waited months to see Clark. He knew the boy had saved his life that night months ago, when he’d lain on the floor in excruciating pain having been poisoned by his own father. Even if he’d managed to survive with the aid of his enhanced healing, the recovery process would have been as close to unpleasant as it could have gotten. Clark hadn’t just saved his life, he’d saved his dignity. He didn’t know then, or now, how Clark had done it, the surveillance cameras had short circuited and been able to reveal nothing, but he was intensely grateful. He was still obsessively curious about the mystery that was Clark Kent, but this time around he’d been willing to wait for the answers instead of doggedly going after them. That’s all he’d wanted to say. But the Kents had made it impossible to reach Clark at every turn. Day after day, for nearly a week he was given the same answer. “Clark’s too sick for visitors, Lex. Please come by another day.” He’d only lost patience, and shown his hand when he’d heard of the hold up at the Talon. The police reports had pictures of the scene and those injured by the gunman’s hand, Lana with her bruised cheek and Clark, whose face and ribs were a collage of dark colors.

His father had always said he was too emotional, had he not so boldly declared his intent to see Clark one way or another, Martha may not have sent him away, probably that very night. Of course he hadn’t known until Lionel’s court date, when Clark had failed to show and the judge had declared the reason to be a legally satisfactory one. He wasn’t told the specifics, and judging by Chloe’s shocked face, she’d been left in the dark as well.

He’d checked the departing flights for every airline from the date of his last visit to the Kent farm up until the court date; nothing under Clark Kent, not from out of Metropolis or Gotham. He’d expanded his search to include as far east as New York and as far west as San Francisco, and slowly made his way down. Still there had been nothing. So he’d gone on to consider aliases, but this meant going to all the major airports, and with his attentions divided between the trial, LexCorp and LuthorCorp, it had been slow going. Unwilling to give up, he’d put his most trusted and discreet investigators on the job of hunting Clark’s departing flight down. It was one of these men who’d informed him of a young man, following Clark’s description, getting onto a Greyhound bus headed to the outskirts of Smallville, seven days ago.

Lex hadn’t wanted to alert the Kent’s of his knowledge of Clark’s return, lest they barricade him from Clark again. So he’d watched and bided his time for the perfect opportunity to approach his absent friend.