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Homestead	By : CeeCee Category: Smallville > General Views: 3359 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Smallville, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 13
- 14
Summary: Clark’s revelation changes him, and he’s less sure than ever what he wants. Lex discovers his friendship with Clark has been complicated by a new wrinkle.
Author’s Note: Thank you for reading this. Updates have been sparse. Real life sucks.
“Isn’t there something you want to ask me?”
“Pardon?”
“Clark,” Lana chided him. Her green eyes were amused at his expense, and he paused in loading the wagon. “You weren’t even listening.”
“You said Chloe’s inside,” he recited dutifully, nodding toward the mercantile.
“Buying material,” she clarified.
“Blue.”
“Pink, Clark.” He had the decency to blush.
“Pink, then.” He set the bag of flour up on the bench seat and tucked the two small spools of cotton thread his ma asked for into his shirt pocket for safekeeping. Lana sighed and shook her head. Her smile was patient, and she stood close enough for him to smell her cologne. It was light and sweet, thankfully, and it didn’t mask the delicate, natural smell of her skin and hair. Lana shook her head at him and smirked.
“For the barn dance at the Ross place,” Lana reminded him.
“Mm-hm.”
“Everyone’s talking about it and raving about their new barn. It’s twice the size of their old one. Old man Ross hasn’t moved his stock in there yet.”
“Mm-hm.” Clark mentally counted his supplies and checked the list his father gave him. “That’s nice.”
“I was planning on wearing a new dress, too.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Depending on whether or not anyone asks me,” she prodded, slightly impatient. She moved between Clark and the wagon as he turned to lift a large bag of dry navy beans.
“Lana, I was just going to load these-“
“Tell me what I just said, Clark.” Lana tapped her foot and placed her hands on her hips. She was the picture of frustrated effort.
“Er…Pete’s pa built a new barn?” Clark’s cheeks flushed deep crimson. Lana almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
“I said no one’s asked me to the barn dance, yet,” she admitted.
“Oh.”
“You weren’t paying attention, Clark.” That made him flush even more furiously, and his stomach knotted. Lana closed the gap between them and spoke softly enough that he had to lean in to hear her.
Well, that was a lie. He heard her just fine. Clark just wanted her to lean in closer and watch her soft pink lips move.
“I was planning to go,” Lana mentioned casually. “Were you?”
“I…I thought about it,” Clark stammered. “Pete mentioned it.” His oldest friend was counting on him to go, and Clark knew he couldn’t back out of it gracefully. He’d spent the last town social standing against a wall, feeling awkward.
Clark Kent couldn’t dance.
Lana assumed his discomfort was caused by her accusations that he wasn’t paying attention to her.
“Chloe’s going,” Lana added.
“Right. Sure. She’s making a new dress for it.”
“A pink one.”
“Pink,” he repeated. Clark suddenly felt too warm. “Pete likes her in pink.” Lana’s brows beetled and she looked surprised.
“How do you know that?”
“Uh… I’m late.”
“For what?”
“I have to get the food home. Ma’s making supper.”
“Clark! Are you holding out on me?” Lana insisted. She tugged on his sleeve, not caring that she was attracting attention from onlookers by being so forward. Her touch almost undid him, and Clark felt his heartbeat speed up.
“No! I’m not holding out about anything!”
“Does Pete like Chloe?” she asked in a conspiratorial whisper. Her green eyes gleamed.
“Lana…ssshhhh!” Clark hissed, making throat-chopping motions with his beefy hand. “Enough… please, don’t say anything. Pete’d have my hide if he knew. If she knew.”
“It’s probably just as well,” Lana sighed. “She hardly knows he’s alive.”
“I wish you hadn’t just said that,” Clark grumbled.
“It’s true,” Lana continued. “He always carried her books when he was still in school. It’s a shame he didn’t finish.” Pete Ross was an excellent student. “She rode in his wagon once.”
“Gee,” Clark murmured absently. That surprised him. He hadn’t mentioned it the last time they spoke. But now that Lana qualified how Chloe really felt, Clark didn’t want to press his friend about it.
He’d be crushed.
“You can’t say anything.” Clark wanted to mention that he might not have to, but Lana returned to her original topic. “Are you going?”
“I guess,” Clark allowed. Lana looked very satisfied.
“Is your ma going to bring anything?”
“Probably the flowers,” Clark mused. “And some of her fried chicken.” Lana nodded in approval.
“That sounds good.”
“What sounds good?” Chloe demanded as she eyed them. She tied her bonnet strings neatly under her chin as she stepped out into the midday sun to avoid more freckles. “What are you two talking about?”
“Nothing,” Clark hedged. Lana smacked his arm, and he pretended to wince. Chloe chuckled at his expression.
He was handsome, but Chloe had given up on trying to get Clark Kent’s attention a long time ago. He was clearly smitten with Lana, even if he wouldn’t admit it out loud. It was as clear to Chloe as the nose on her face. But the one thing that baffled Chloe most of all was Clark’s bashfulness. Lana would have an easier time pulling Clark’s teeth than getting him to ask her to the barn dance.
“Mrs. Kent’s going to bring her fried chicken to Pete’s on Saturday,” Lana announced. She automatically looped her arm through Chloe’s, a gesture that hadn’t died with the passing of their childhood. They would always be partners in crime. The pert blonde chuckled at her best friend this time.
“Chicken would go well with pie. My ma’s bringing two.”
“You’re not making them, are you?” Clark shuddered. Chloe smacked him.
“Of course not.”
“Why not?” Lana demanded.
“Chloe belongs in the classroom, not the kitchen,” Clark pointed out. “I almost broke a tooth on those biscuits you made.” He exaggerated, but Pete made a similar claim once Chloe was out of earshot, merely smiling and nodding over a dry mouthful of bread to protect her feelings.
“Your husband’s going to be a lucky man,” Lana quipped, wrinkling her nose.
“He’ll fall down on his knees in thanks, if he’s smart,” she agreed smugly. Her hazel eyes gleamed, and Lana read the silent intent in her eyes as they pinned Clark. You missed your chance, farm boy. Clark was oblivious to it, and he shrugged.
“So you’ll iron his shirts, then,” he reasoned. Chloe swatted his chest.
“I intend to work until I marry,” she announced.
“You don’t have to,” Lana argued. Her expression was slightly appalled. “Your father makes a comfortable living.”
“Ma’s giving up teaching,” Chloe reminded her. “It’s up to me to pitch in and help out. And I don’t plan to go finishing school. I want to go to college.”
“In Metropolis?” Lana inquired, truly interested now in her friend’s plans.
“If they accept me.”
“That’s too far away,” Clark complained.
“I can’t stay in Smallville forever, Clark. Don’t be silly.”
“I like it here,” Lana told them. “It’s always felt like home. Aunt Nell would never forgive me if I left.” Lana’s mother and father were killed in a freak train wreck when she was five. Her aunt and grandmother raised her and indulged her incessantly, making sure she wanted for nothing.
Deep in her heart, she wanted to marry someone just like her father. She wanted a man who was hardworking and honest, and who would listen to her and be her fortress if life’s misfortunes ever caught up to her. Lana believed she found that man in Clark Kent. He was her childhood friend and the strong, silent, bashful type whenever she approached now, different from when he and Pete would pull her pigtails.
“There’s nothing wrong with Smallville,” Chloe agreed easily, but she sighed. “I just want more. I want to travel and see more of the world, and I want to write about it.”
“A book?” Clark inquired.
“No. I want to report the things around me. I want to work on a periodical. A newspaper,” she clarified.
“That sounds difficult. And Chloe, most reporters are men.”
“So?” Her blonde brows drew together, and she tugged her arm from Lana’s grip. “It’s time for that to change. I’m going to work for a newspaper.”
“I believe you,” Clark shrugged. The corner of his mouth curled, and Chloe swatted him again.
“You’d better, Clark!”
“I have to go,” he told them curtly, reluctant to leave while Lana was giving him the time of day. His cheeks were burning. He hoped Lana’s low sigh was because of his departure, but he wouldn’t flatter himself. Clark climbed up into the wagon and put his hat back on to shield his eyes from the late afternoon sun.
“Clark, how’s your pa doing?” Chloe interjected before he could snap the reins. Clark paused and shook his head.
“He’s managing. He’s been tired, lately.”
“He needs some of your ma’s chicken soup,” Lana pronounced hopefully as she looked up at him. Emerald green met moss in the stare that lingered between them. Lana ached for him in that moment.
“Sure. That’s all he needs,” Clark agreed affably. He tipped his hat and guided his horses down the dusty street.
*
Lex winced as he rose from the chair in the Luthor’s study, frustrated with the splint that bound his lower leg. The doctor assured him cheerfully that he was making excellent progress for a man who almost died in a mine explosion, but that was no comfort to him. Lex’s bones were knitting themselves back together remarkably fast, but that meant nothing for the pain. All day and all night, his leg throbbed and made each step torture. He became handy with his cane, one of the finest offered in the catalog, and Mrs. Perry assured him that he looked rather dapper with it; Lex could care less. Whenever he caught his reflection in passing, Lex thought he looked too old for his years. His bald scalp and the faint lines etched around the corners of his mouth made him look mulish and haggard, at least in his opinion.
He reminded himself of his stepfather. Lionel, in fact, did look older than his years, thanks to his indiscretions with the bottle and an adult career fraught with bad habits. Lex grew restless with his continued residence under Lionel’s roof. It wasn’t a home; it had never felt that way, even when his mother was still alive and Julian’s laughter filled the nursery. Alex longed for a place to call his own and a life out from under Lionel’s thumb.
He missed Oliver terribly, but he pushed those emotions deep down, packing them away where they would do no harm. Hearing his deep voice filled with amusement – usually at Lex’s expense – in his head kept him up at night. He remembered the feel of his hand in Olly’s strong, calloused grip. The caress of those hands over his body haunted him, leaving him bereft of their absence.
Lex stewed with resentment. Dinah was beautiful and charming, the perfect wife for Oliver on the surface. Lex would take his lover’s betrayal to his grave whenever he admitted to himself, after much soul-searching, that what he had to offer wasn’t enough for Oliver McQueen. Once again, he wasn’t good enough for someone who was supposed to love him. He might as well have stabbed him through the heart.
Lex hobbled downstairs at a miserable pace, heading for the outhouse. Even that simple daily need was difficult, and the effort humiliated him. Mrs. Perry had the cheek to suggest a chamber pot; Lex was tempted to give her his assent, along with the reminder that she would have to look after it. How dare she make light of his disability, he fumed…
But Lex dreamed of improvements to the Luthor home, modern and all the rage in larger cities. Indoor plumbing made its way into more homes; bathing suites were equipped with metal pipes and claw-footed tubs. How marvelous it would be never to have their housekeeper bring up water again, a few pots at a time. In that regard, at least, he and his father saw things in the same light. Lionel loved new technology and inventions, and he was always looking for ways to profit from them. What if they no longer had to trek outside in the dark to the outhouse to relieve themselves? Think of the possibilities!
It was a welcome distraction from losing the man he loved. Lex went about his day performing at adjusted expectations. He wasn’t to set foot back in the mines until his leg was fully healed. In the meantime, he worked at the counter of the store, attending to his father’s bookkeeping and waiting on customers like a common stock boy. But Alex didn’t mind being inside for a change instead of in the dank, humid caves. His father’s workers came into the mercantile from time to time, and they were polite but dismissive with him. Lex’s slate blue eyes raked over them coldly as they took their leave. How dare they think they were better than a Luthor.
Alex went into the kitchen and spied a basket covered with a small tea towel on the table. He lifted it and found Mrs. Perry's biscuits and a small jar of blackberry jam. His stomach growled at the scent of food; Alex had lost track of when he last ate. He sat for a brief repast after making himself a pot of cocoa; as he dusted the crumbs from his hands with the cloth napkin, he heard a knock at the window. He smirked as he caught Clark's green eyes peering at him. "Still the same Clark," he muttered, but enthusiasm moved him more quickly to let him inside.
"They're called doors, Clark."
"I know."
"Yet you always knock on the window first."
"It's fun to watch you," he admitted before he could stop himself. Lex arched one strawberry blonde brow. Clark flushed, cleared his throat and averted his eyes, pretending to admire a Daguerreotype on the wall. "Is that new?"
"It is."
"You both look like dandies," Clark remarked as he closed in on the framed portrait.
"Father insisted on it, this time." Lex didn't know why he bothered. But Lionel Luthor cared a great deal about appearances, and to the random guest who entered their home, it was important for the two men to seem like "family."
Clark examined it closely, not having to feign interest now. Alex and Lionel both wore dark suits; Clark assumed they were both black, something that was difficult to tell with the sepia-toned paper. Lionel sat on one of the richly upholstered chairs in their parlor, while Lex stood behind him with his hand resting on his shoulder. Neither of them smiled, which wasn't uncommon when people sat for a portrait, Clark supposed. But there was something shrewd and calculating in Lionel's eyes that came through on paper; Clark felt as though he were staring right through him, mocking him.
Lex's eyes seemed flat and cold, and his stance was rigid and uncomfortable. Clark wasn't fond of the image of his friend, owning none of his usual warmth and wry humor. This wasn't the boy he grew up with.
And it was a poor representation of the man who owned his heart. Clark shivered.
"You don't like it?" Lex inquired, frowning.
"It's fine," Clark lied, smiling to cover his consternation.
"You hate it," Lex prodded. Clark shrugged, then nodded. "So do I."
"It's not you,” Clark admitted earnestly.
"Forget about it. Have some chocolate." Lex pulled out a chair and poured his guest a cup, glad to perform the small task in his housekeeper's absence. She left after preparing Lionel's dinner to care for her husband, who was ailing with an odd fever. He refilled his own cup and winced as he sat back down.
"It still hurts?" Clark's eyes were full of concern.
"It's...uncomfortable. The bone's healed, but my muscles are stiff. I still hate to walk on it, and I keep favoring the other leg."
"You're not working it properly, then," Clark tsked.
"Easy for you to say. You never get hurt," Lex pointed out, shaking his head. "Miserable bastard."
"Don't swear, Lex," Clark reminded him impishly. "Seriously. It hurts that much?" Lex flushed when he realized he'd just admitted his weakness.
"I'll manage. It's just a nuisance. Don't worry about it."
"Want some of Ma's liniment?"
"Don't let her trouble herself."
"It's no trouble. I can be back with it in a min-"
"No. Don't." Lex's voice didn't brook any argument.
"It wouldn't take me-"
"No, Clark."
"What's wrong with me just bring-"
"I said no."
"You're stubborn."
"Look who's talking."
"You don't need any excuses to speed through town, Clark. You could get caught."
"I haven't been so far," Clark shrugged. "Don't worry about it."
"I do. As well you should." Clark shrugged at him again over the edge of his cup.
"Then what are you going to do about the pain?"
"I took a hot bath a while ago."
"Did it help?"
"Slightly. It's just this little throb that won't go away."
"Maybe you could rub it," Clark mused. "Works for the horses."
"Do I look like Biscuit?" Lex snorted.
"A little," Clark said innocently. "Why not give it a try?"
"Who on earth would want to rub my leg for me?" Lex scoffed.
Heat rose up in his cheeks as Clark pushed his seat back and rose from the table. "Clark... what on earth are you d-" Awkwardness warred with surprise as his friend knelt beside him and began to remove his shoe and stocking.
"It's worth a try if your leg doesn't hurt anymore, isn't it?" Clark's hands were large, strong and warm as he lifted the hem of Lex's pants cuff over his knee and gently probed his calf. "It's a little swollen," he clucked.
"Probably why it's sore. It's inflamed."
"No scar, though." Clark sounded impressed. If Lex didn't already feel awkward enough, Clark had to push him even further into complete and utter embarrassment when he lifted his foot - his bare foot - to rest on his muscular thigh. Lex shivered at his touch and the sensation of his fingers running over the tendons in his ankle and the ball of his foot. Clark was rapt at his task as he began to knead his calf with growing firmness, and Lex released a low groan of relief. His eyes shuttered and his shoulders sagged as he relaxed beneath Clark's touch.
"You need to exercise this leg, Lex."
"Now you're just nagging, Clark." Lex cracked one eye open to peer down into Clark's face, and he wasn't sure he liked his friend's smirk.
"I learned from the best." Clark's fingers found a knotted muscle and exerted pressure on it, urging the adhesion to release. Lex winced, but then groaned again as the tension left it. Clark felt warm all over from the earthy groans of Lex's deep voice and the pleasure he heard in it as he massaged his flesh. His skin was pliable and supple, covered with a fine layer of blond hair, and the intimacy of their contact was doing strange things between his thighs...
Clark's member went hard as a rock, and he stiffened.
"Don't stop, Clark. That feels marvelous."
He didn't need any further encouragement. "Right here, Lex?"
"Yes," he sighed. "Right there."
"You're so tense."
"I can't help it. I'm a mess, Clark," he told him, resigned.
"You're not taking care of yourself."
"I don't have time," he argued. He yawned briefly. "You've got fantastic hands..." Clark worked his way up his leg, finding more knotted muscle where his knee joined his lower thigh. Pleasure wrapped itself around him as he grew more relaxed. Clark's hands instinctively molded to him, coaxing out aches and his body's complaints, and Lex felt connected to him as he gave up his pain to Clark.
His pants leg was in the way. Clark suppressed a grumble and let the hem of the pants cuff fall back into place. Lex missed the feel of his fingers on his bare skin. "You stopped."
"Your pants don't give me much room to work with." Clark looked apologetic. Lex looked ready to pout.
"I've got one last kink that could use your help." He flexed his foot impatiently, Clark was pleased to notice... "Right up here." He palmed the offending cramp at about mid-thigh. "Can you fix it?"
Lex almost regretted his request. The bottom dropped out of his stomach when Clark's green eyes smoldered up at him with need. He never took his eyes off Lex's face as his hands worked their way north. Lex's fingers tensed against his thigh and he blew out a shaky breath, pupils dilating in the wake of his plea. He only realized as Clark indulged him that he'd thrown out an offer, and a challenge.
Clark's fingers eased his hand away from where he wanted him to rub, and electricity ran through every nerve in his body. Lex's toes curled against Clark's thigh where his foot rested, and he felt his body heat through the sturdy fabric of his trousers. He pressed his thumbs into the knotted muscle, and Lex's body reacted violently. His manhood swelled and strained inside his breeches. His hips jerked briefly with the pressure. Clark's rough hands circled his lean thigh and kneaded, working him like clay.
"Does that feel good, Lex?" Clark's voice was thick as syrup and loaded with arousal.
"Yes," Lex hissed. "Damn you, Clark..."
"Don't swear, Lex," Clark murmured, but he liked the way the forbidden words grated out through his teeth, the way they caught his thin, shapely pink lip between them. Lex's hips jerked again with the rhythm of Clark's caress, and he felt a slight cramp in his lower back from the awkwardness of his position, but it was worth it. The chaos Clark wrought within his body was worth it... he was so close, so hot, and he smelled like his usual, natural musk and the soap Martha used to wash his shirts.
Alarms went off in Alex's head when Clarks fingers teased his inner thigh, dangerously close to his groin. "CLARK!" he snapped. "That's enough. Done! You're... done," he choked. His voice was strangled and desperate, and Lex was panting.
Clark wasn't any better shape. His pupils were dilated and his eyes were drowsy with passion. Alex saw his Adam's apple flex as he swallowed and cleared his throat, admiring the cords of muscle in his neck.
He would be the end of him. Clark Kent practically killed him.
With just a massage. Lex jerked his foot from Clark's lap, realizing belatedly that it had crept toward the unseen, unplanned target of Clark's crotch, its intent Lex could only guess.
"Lex," Clark whispered. "I'm sorry." Shame washed over him, and he stood in a rush, seeking to flee.
"Clark, wait-"
"Bye." Damn his speed. He was gone in a flash, and Lex sat dumbfounded, nursing an enormous, painful erection. He dismissed the fact that his leg felt much, much better.
*
“I don’t know how to dance,” Pete admitted to Clark the next day while he mucked out the stall of his father’s small green barn. Clark pouted, shoulders drooping.
“Well, you’re no help.”
“If I didn’t have time to go to school, Clark, what makes you think I had time to learn a jig?”
“I dunno…” Clark sighed heavily. “Well, that’s just ducky.”
“Lana might even teach you how,” Pete suggested, smirking.
“I don’t want her to have to teach me. I don’t want to end up looking like an idiot farm boy with two left feet.”
“But, you are an idiot farm boy,” Pete pointed out, deadpanning. Clark waited until Pete’s back was turned, then took umbrage by drawing in a gusty breath and expelling it in a swirling rush, lifting half of the soiled straw Pete had just thrown out with his pitchfork and depositing it back in the stall out of spite. “HEY!”
“How’d that happen?” Clark wondered, shrugging. “Too bad. Now you’ve got to start all over again. Back to work, lazy bones!”
“What? But… what?” Pete stared at the depleted pile he’d worked so diligently on, then jerked his head back toward the again-full stall. He narrowed his eyes at Clark.
“Guess you can’t help me, buddy.”
“Well, you could help me!”
“Just an idiot farm boy,” Clark grinned. Pete gave him a wounded look, and Clark took pity on him. He went to the wall and pulled down another pitchfork and helped him clear the stall before they finished the less odious chores of gathering eggs from the henhouse and watering the Ross’ apple orchards. Pete invited him in for a plate of cornbread and honey, and they ruminated on the upcoming party.
“Chloe won’t go with me.”
“You already asked her?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t know she won’t.”
“It won’t be any different than before. She doesn’t know I’m alive.” Clark winced at Lana’s words coming out of his mouth.
“It’s not that bad.”
“Easy for you to say.” Pete toyed with his bread, tearing it into crumbs and dragging them through a puddle of honey on his plate. “Everyone could tell she had eyes for you.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Clark scoffed. “I’m the idiot farm boy, remember? Chloe’s the smarty pants. And we don’t have anything in common.”
“You’re both good at writing. There was nothing wrong with your marks in school, Clark.”
“She’s so nosy,” Clark sighed. “She’s nice enough. She’s pretty, if you like that look of hers.”
“What’s not to like?” Pete snapped indignantly, and Clark smothered a grin.
“She’s just not my cup of tea.”
“No. Stuck-up brunettes are.”
“Lana’s not stuck up!” But Pete was already up out of his seat, propping his hand on his hip and sticking out his chest. He fluttered his eyelashes at Clark.
“There you are, Clark! If you bow down and kiss my dainty boots, I might let you fling yourself over that puddle so I can walk all over you to stay dry!” His voice was high-pitched, and he pantomimed throwing long hair over his shoulder.
“You’re demented.”
“You boys finished with the stalls?” Mr. Ross thumped into the kitchen, and Pete straightened up from his mimickry immediately.
“Yes, Pa.”
“Clear those plates. Don’t leave a mess behind for your mother.” Clark automatically stood as his best friend’s father approached and reached out to shake his hand firmly – not too firmly. Mr. Ross grunted in approval. “You’ve grown like a weed.”
“Yessir.”
“No doubt eating your folks out of house and home.”
“Can’t help it, when Ma cooks the way she does.” Clark grinned good-naturedly and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Pete, I’d better go.” He shook Mr. Ross’ hand again. “Good to see you again, sir.”
“Give your ma and pa my best, Clark. We’ll see you at the social?” he said hopefully. Clark blushed.
“Ma’s bringing food.”
“Clark’s gonna show us how light he is on his feet.” Clark shot him a glare, but Pete smirked and folded his arms across his chest in satisfaction.
“Maybe that Sullivan girl will be there,” Pete’s dad mused, and Pete’s mouth drooped. Clark cleared his throat, smothering a laugh. “Good night, Clark.”
“G’night, sir.” Clark let himself out, crossing the field at a sedate pace until he reached the road. He looked back over his shoulder, no longer seeing his hosts through the kitchen windows, then broke into a sprint, feet kicking up a trail of gravel and dust behind him. Clark had no more answers to his problem than before. There was still the matter of his two left feet, and the way his mind shut down every time he stared into a certain pair of hazel green eyes.
*
Martha weaseled his worries out of him and cornered him once the last clean dish was dried and put away. “Jonathan, get out your fiddle!”
“Ma!” Clark blushed red as a beet, mortified, but her eyes were twinkling.
“All of the Kent men are light on their feet. You don’t want Lana waiting on the sidelines for someone else to ask her, do you?” Clark watched his mother ambivalently as she removed her apron and hung it on the hook. Jonathan grinned as he took his bow and fiddle out of their leather case. He plucked a few strings arranged the chin rest under his jaw, and he launched into a reel that would set most feet stamping out to the middle of the floor. Martha dragged Clark to his feet and arranged him and moved him about with copious amounts of nagging. “Stand up straight, Clark! Eyes up, not down on the floor! Don’t be bashful!” After about an hour, he could almost manage a quadrille and a couple of reels.
The nagging thought that he would absolutely die if anyone saw him stumbling around in his mother’s spotless sitting room made him dread the dance, and the risk of humiliating himself in front of Lana Lang. He suffered his father’s skilled playing and his mother’s painstaking lessons, hoping that it would be worth it.
*
One week later:
Clark’s courage deserted him as soon as he entered the barn and watched the sea of brightly colored calico dresses swirling around the floor and heard the stamping of feet. Jonathan sat toward the back of the room fiddling and working up a sweat, despite the cool evening weather. Ethan, the local sheriff, sawed away skillfully on his harmonica while Whitney Fordman’s pa plucked at his banjo, leading the clamor of laughing voices and clapping. Clark’s senses were overloaded by the noise, and he leaned back against the wall, idly sipping a cup of the warm spiced punch.
Lana’s curls bounced against her shoulders and back as Whitney led her in a quadrille, no signs of extra left feet in sight, and Clark burned with jealousy and frustration. Pete sidled up to him and bumped his shoulder. “Just planning to let him sweep her off her feet all night long now that he’s beat you to it?”
“Only as long as it takes you to go over there and tell Chloe what a nice job she did on that dress.” Chloe was chatting with one of the younger girls from the schoolhouse, radiant in the pale pink dress cut in a snug basque done up in tiny pearl buttons whose skirt fell in graceful puffs behind her. Her blonde hair was swept back from her face in a cascade of curls much like Lana’s, revealing a delicate pair of pearl ear bobs and a cameo pin fastened neatly at her collar. She’d dusted her freckles with powder for the occasion and was tapping her feet to the music. Once in a while Clark noticed her looking around the barn, and Pete must have, too, judging by the way he sank back against the wall.
“Button your lip,” Pete told him.
“She looks awful pretty.”
“So does Lana.” Clark sighed and stared down into his empty cup.
“I’m fine where I am.”
“What’s he doing here?” Clark frowned at Pete’s tone, amusement replaced with scorn. He followed Pete’s glance toward the wide door and caught sight of Alex, ambling inside with the remainder of his limp. He still used his brass-handled cane, and he managed to be overdressed for the occasion in his flocked vest and fitted black jacket, whose opening revealed the pristine white collar of his silk shirt. The rest of the company opted for flannel shirts and suspenders, for the most part, but Alex didn’t look as though he cared how out of place he was. His blue-gray eyes took everything in with a hint of amusement that Pete mistook for haughtiness.
“Don’t suppose he’ll dance?” Pete mused.
“Pete, stop,” Clark chided him. “Be polite.”
“So? One of the Luthors sees fit to honor us with his presence?”
“I don’t see Lionel yet,” Clark remarked. He scanned the room, then narrowed his eyes as he stared through the barn’s sturdy planks, transparent as glass to him thanks to his gift. He saw the coach that Alex arrived in, but no sign of the Luthor patriarch, and Clark felt guilty at how relieved that left him.
“Good,” Pete muttered. “Now Pa won’t run out of brandy.”
“Pete!” Clark snapped. “That’s enough!” Pete didn’t back down from Clark’s glare, shrugging at the sight of his tight lips.
“Excuse me if I’m not as excited to see him here as you,” he told him, and Clark shivered at his cold tone. “Lionel hasn’t done my father any favors, Clark.” He straightened up when Alex finished scanning the room and his eyes landed on them. They crinkled as he smiled and approached them.
“Is your pitching arm rusty, Pete?”
“Too busy using it to swing a hammer,” Pete told Alex simply. He stared down at Alex’s hand and grudgingly shook it, feeling Clark willing him to behave. Alex’s smile was measured as he nodded at him.
“Fine work, Pete. Nice turnout, and nice spread.”
“I’ll pass that along to my folks. Took us a while to finish the barn. Pa had the time, but money was tight after his last day at the mill.” Clark winced. Lionel closed down the old saw mill on a whim, deciding it wasn’t producing as well as the ones in Gotham’s business district or the new one in Star City. He signed away the company, making the announcement mere minutes after the ink dried and after the last man clocked out for the day. Pete pushed himself away from the wall and stalked off, joining a few of his friends from the mines, content to ignore that he’d just insulted his employer’s son, his foreman.
“Warm welcome as ever,” Alex murmured. Clark shrugged.
“Nice cane.”
“Thanks. Makes me feel important.”
“Might get in the way when you dance.”
“You can hold onto it for me,” Alex retorted. “If you’re planning to get out there and take Lana for a spin, that is.”
“I can’t ‘plan’ on it. It’s up to her if she wants to dance with me,” Clark explained patiently. His punch cup was still annoyingly empty; staring into it didn’t fill it back up any faster.
“So, you just haven’t asked her yet? That’s why Whitney is having the time of his life out there? Wait… that’s Jason Teague cutting in.” Alex tsked solemnly.
“Do shut up.”
“It’s not polite to leave a woman waiting, Clark.” Alex checked the fine gold watch that dangled from his pocket by a chain. “You’ve been here for, oh, about an hour?”
Clark looked miserable.
“There are other ways to get her attention besides dipping her pigtails in your inkwell,” Alex pointed out.
“Alex…”
“No excuses, Clark.” His tone mimicked his father’s slightly, and Clark’s green eyes snapped to attention. “You like that girl. And if you like her, you won’t get her standing against this wall, in this barn, just wishing she would drop everything and do what you’re afraid to. She’s a lady. She won’t make the first move.” Alex felt slightly guilty as he remembered his last encounter with Victoria at Ruby’s place; the first move had certainly been hers. As well as the next several.
“What if she says no?”
“What if she says yes?” Alex dangled the possibility like a carrot under his nose. “Quit being stubborn. You’ll hate yourself if you stay here all night and never try. I’ll keep the wall warm for you. Give me that cup.” Alex thought better of it and handed it back to him. “Go ahead and fill it back up, then give it to me.”
“Only because you’ve got a bad leg,” Clark groused. His cheeks were flushed, and he was fuming as he went back to the punch bowl. He ladled it full, scooping in several chunks of the fruit floating on its surface. He returned and went to hand it to Alex, but he held up his hand.
“Wait.” He reached out and smoothed down Clark’s shirt collar and straightened his suspenders. “Now you’re presentable.” He licked his finger and smoothed down a few strands of Clark’s hair before Clark grinned and swatted his hand away.
“Drink your drink.”
“Dance with that girl.” Alex watched in satisfaction as Clark rolled his eyes, then turned, straightened up and strode toward the edge of the dance floor. Clark hesitated as Lana lingered with Jason, catching her breath and glowing, freeing a strand of hair from her lips. “Go on, Clark,” Alex murmured under his breath. For the briefest of moments, Clark’s head angled around a fraction, as though he’d heard Alex, but he gave Lana his full attention, and Alex decided he was only imagining what he saw. Anticipation made the corner of his mouth quirk with the effort not to grin as Clark finally approached her. Jason Teague looked momentarily confused as he noticed Clark there, smiling expectantly at Lana. His green eyes were almost apologetic when he nodded to Jason.
“Mind if I cut in?”
“No,” Lana answered for Jason, and her expression was openly pleased, even delighted. Jason huffed and let go of her hand, but he stood still, leaving Lana to brush against him one last time as Clark led her back to the dance floor. Behind them, Alex savored his punch, chewing on a bit of fruit as he watched the snub. His amusement unfortunately faded, then completely died as he watched Clark guide Lana around the floor, following the caller’s cries.
They were so beautiful together they made Alex ache to look at them. Clark handled Lana like she was delicate, and even if he wasn’t the most skilled dancer, he managed well enough, capable enough to make the other girls in the room green with envy that it was Lana he spun around the floor. They complemented each other, Clark’s massive height and solid planes of muscle a perfect counterpoint to her petite curves. Laughing hazel eyes challenged adoring emerald green, and Alex nearly lost it when he watched Clark grinning in that little self-deprecating way that always ended with his lower lip getting caught between his perfect white teeth, an automatic reflex when Clark stopped a pace short, just short of stepping on Lana’s toes, and she crashed into him with a barely audible “oof!” But her hands steadied her, finding purchase against his broad chest.
Yearning lanced through Alex, eyes riveted to that minor contact between them as his own hands wondered how hot Clark’s chest had to feel, how solid, with his rapid heartbeat drumming beneath his hungry palms. A rush of heat consumed him, licking up over his cheeks and throat; even his scalp tingled.
Clark felt eyes upon him, and he tracked the sensation to the back of the room. His mouth went dry at the sight of Alex watching him, leaning forward slightly. His cane rested against the table, and he was still nursing the punch, but his other hand was curled into a fist and pressed against his thigh. His eyes were dilated and watching him with so much naked desire, yet suffused with pain. Clark’s breath caught, but he felt Lana tugging on his sleeve.
“Clark? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he assured her, and her smile brightened.
“Big, strong farm boy already worn out after one turn around the floor?” she teased. Clark shook his head, but his cheeks were flushed as he recovered from his distraction. Dutifully, he heeded the caller’s injunction to do-si-do, and he felt relieved to notice that Pete had managed to get Chloe out on the floor. The blonde’s cheeks were pink with excitement, killing Pete’s concerns of whether she knew he was alive.
“I can keep up,” Clark promised, and neither of them heeded convention in spending too many songs together.
By the third, however, Clark noticed that Alex was nowhere to be found. By the time the last depleted pie plate was covered and put away and the music died, Clark glanced outside and saw that his best friend’s coach was gone. He felt confused and bereft.
*
“Lot of stars out tonight,” Lana murmured as her parents packed their leftover food into the back of the wagon. They were chatting with Mr. Ross idly, allowing their only child a few not-quite-chaperoned minutes with Clark, several yards away and just out of earshot. They scanned the inky blanket of silvery pearls overhead.
“It’s getting colder at night.”
“It is chilly,” Lana agreed, shrugging into her coat and rubbing her fingers to warm them. She watched Clark expectantly, and she wasn’t disappointed when his large hand closed around hers, one thick thumb stroking her fingers. “I had a nice time.” Whitney and Jason had already left, chafing at her refusal when they each offered her a ride home by wagon. Clark tingled with the awareness of her, the feel of her soft, cool skin and the sweet scent of her hair. She stole looks at her parents and her smile was mischievous.
“I didn’t step on your toes,” Clark said with a shrug.
“Not much,” she corrected him, and he blushed. Lana snickered. “Took you long enough to ask me, Clark.”
“You were occupied.”
“I was waiting for you.”
He didn’t know what to say, and her eyes were turning his brain to mush. She flicked one last furtive glance toward her parents, and she bit her lip with indecision for a moment. “What?” he asked her; she looked so anxious.
“Come down here,” she hissed. “Quick!”
“What…?” Her hand fisted itself around his suspender strap and tugged him down where she wanted him, and her soft lips thrust up at his, stealing away his confused protest. She captured his low hum of surprise that tapered off into a whimper. She broke the contact as quickly as it began.
“G’night, Clark. Tell your ma that the chicken was wonderful.”
“Okay,” he breathed, and his hand suddenly felt empty once he was no longer holding onto her hand, but she was rushing to her father’s wagon, trying to look like nothing was amiss. But Mr. Lang’s brows rose knowingly in Clark’s direction, and Clark nodded at him, then decided his own parents had to be expecting him to come along… hadn’t they?
“Clark,” his mother chided him, smiling, “are you too warm, dear? Your face is flushed.”
“I’m fine, Ma. I’m all right.”
Clark was quiet on the ride home, still thrumming with excitement and restlessness. Hazel eyes and a wicked smile filled his thoughts as he counted the stars.
But so did slate blue ones, full of undisguised need.
*
Clark waited until he heard his parents retire for the night, lanterns snuffed and covers pulled up tight. He heard their breathing slow down tellingly even through the closed door, and he knew it was safe to head out. The niggling urge to see Alex wouldn’t leave him alone, let alone turn in for the night.
But to his surprise, he saw a familiar slender figure astride a gray horse out on the road, bundled in a heavy black wool coat. Alex had abandoned his finery in favor of sturdy jeans and a wide-brimmed hat. He let his horse canter toward the Kent’s spread, and Clark squelched the urge to run to him, instead waiting patiently by the fence, roughly a meter from the house.
Clark waited for Alex to climb down from his mount before reaching for the reins to lead him into the stable. Clark tethered him in one of the empty stalls and filled an oat bag for him, making the large gray nicker its thanks as he strapped it on.
“How’d you know I was still up?”
“I didn’t.”
“Climb on up. If you can,” Clark recanted, forgetting for a moment about Alex’s sore leg, but Alex nodded.
“I’m fine.” His limp said otherwise, but he preceded Clark up the ladder, and Clark watched him protectively, following him closely in case he faltered.
“Why didn’t you stay?”
“Not much point in going to a dance social if you don’t plan to actually dance.” Alex shrugged. “Pete had already invited Father and me last month. I wasn’t going to decline. It would’ve been rude.”
“Mr. Ross would’ve understood,” Clark said with a shrug. “I was glad you came, anyway.”
“Someone had to babysit you and make sure you didn’t chicken out,” Alex agreed wryly, smirking. Clark snorted.
“I don’t need babysitting.”
“You still do,” Alex argued. “You would’ve spent the next three hours bored out of your mind, emptying the punch bowl and watching Fordman beat your time with the girl of your dreams.”
“I don’t think he’s beating my time, Lex,” Clark told him smugly. His green eyes were knowing, satisfied, and Alex knew too well why.
“You kissed her.”
“She kissed me.” Clark’s breath caught as Alex continued to stare at him, and suddenly he felt self-conscious under his scrutiny.
“You. Sly. Dog.” The tension between them evaporated and Alex gave Clark’s back an affectionate slap. He grinned at him, and Clark felt relieved that everything between them seemed to return to its usual, even footing. “So that’s your game, Mr. Big, Innocent Farm Boy. That’s how you get the ladies.”
“Shut up,” Clark muttered, but he was grinning, too. “It was nice,” he said softly. “Really nice.”
“Bold move. She must really like you.” Clark sighed and sat down on one of the hay bales, and he nodded for Alex to join him. But Alex winced and made a sound of discomfort.
“What’s wrong? Leg hurt?”
“Yeah,” he admitted. “Overdid it with the ride over here.”
“I was coming to see you,” Clark confessed. “Maybe you should have let me.”
“I needed to get out of the house.” He didn’t mention that he made it out the back door a mere minute before he heard Lionel singing boisterously and stumbling inside from the front.
“What can I do? Need me to rub it again?” His tone was almost hopeful. It took all of Alex’s self control not to say yes.
“I just need to get all the way off of it.” Clark’s eyes searched the loft for a moment, and they landed on a rough horse blanket folded and laying on top of a small work table. Clark retrieved it and spread it out over the hay-strewn floor.
“See if that helps.” Clark knelt down on the blanket and offered Alex his hand, reaching up to him to help him down. Alex took it and carefully sank down to the floor, stretching his legs out in front of him. His face was strained and tense, and Clark frowned.
“You need those boots off. Your leg will swell if you don’t.”
“That’s fine.” He allowed Clark to help him remove them, starting with the offending leg first. Clark pulled it off without the use of a jack and gently laid his foot down, kneading it briefly through the coarse wool sock. Alex groaned with pleasure but shook his head.
“No need for that.”
“It might help,” Clark pressed again. “You came all the way out here to visit me. Let me make you more comfortable.”
“I didn’t come out here for comfort. Just company.” Clark sighed before removing his other boot. He set them upright against a small bench and stretched out beside Alex on the blanket with no further invitation, lying on his back.
“Have it your way.” Clark’s eyes swung away from him and stared straight up toward the ceiling. “Look at all the stars out tonight.” Alex peered up through the skylight, leaning back on the heels of his hands. Clark tucked his hands behind his head and stretched, ignoring the bits of hay poking him through the rough blanket. The cool air felt delicious. The moon was clear and bright, and a silvery halo glowed around it, making their eyes swim. Alex sank back down to the floor beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and he watched the sky thoughtfully. He set his hat aside and unbuttoned his coat to avoid it strangling him.
“It’s beautiful.” He turned slightly to stare at Clark’s elegant profile. “Do you ever sleep out here?”
“Sometimes. I like seeing the sky. I like waking up to it, too. And sometimes, I just need to be alone.”
“What do you think about when you’re out here?”
“All the things I can’t always tell people. All the things I wish I could tell people. And… sometimes I just need to be able to think without Ma asking me if I’m okay.” Clark wondered if he’s said too much. He heard the straw rustle beneath Alex as he turned on his side and propped himself on his elbow.
“Sometimes you’re not?” Alex pressed.
“Sometimes I don’t know,” he admitted. “You know I’m different. I’ll never know why.”
“Do you ever want to know?”
“All the time.” He didn’t share his father’s story of how he found him. Jonathan had always held him firmly – adamantly – to the promise that he would keep the secret of how he came to be with the Kents within the confines of their home. Even after Clark had grown to adulthood and was no longer at any risk to be taken away from Jonathan and Martha, the rest of the town – the rest of the world didn’t need to know that Clark was anything but their own son by blood. Smallville’s lips didn’t need any more reason to flap. “I don’t know if I’m meant to know.”
“But you’re content with not knowing?” Alex couldn’t believe it. His own brilliant mind raced with possibilities, but Clark’s soft tone stopped him.
“Don’t. Don’t wear yourself thinking about it. Alex, I’ve spent my whole life trying to just fit in. I don’t want to waste my life trying to figure out why I don’t.” Alex settled onto his back again and sighed. They both watched the stars twinkle and listened to each other breathe.
“You fit in just fine.” Alex gave him a wry laugh. “Just ask Lana. Just ask anyone. Everyone accepts you.” Clark frowned. He jutted his face toward Alex again and saw the sadness settle over his features.
“They accept y-“
“No, they don’t. Don’t lie.”
“They’re fools if they don’t,” Clark countered. Alex didn’t want the sympathy he saw in his eyes. “Idiots if they don’t see what I see in you.” A slow rush of tingles spread over Alex and small thrills curled in his stomach at those words.
“What do you see in me, Clark?” Clark’s mouth went dry as cotton again, and he swallowed roughly.
“Everything I ever wanted, Lex.”
He hated himself the moment the words were out of his mouth, and Clark winced at the sudden, sharp silence, feeling Alex stiffen beside him even though they weren’t touching. Clark closed his eyes in frustration, exhaling through his nose and bracing himself for disappointment and imminent rejection. I’ve ruined it. I’ve ruined it all between us. Now he’ll hate me. He’ll think I’m a freak. His fist curled at his side, white-knuckling on top of the coarse blanket.
He jerked when he felt Alex’s cool, slender fingers wrap around it, lacing themselves through his. “Lex,” Clark whispered, not daring to look at him yet, but his eyes flitted down to their linked hands, his view of them almost obscured by Alex’s sleeve from where he lay.
“That’s what I see whenever I look at you.” Alex released a pent-up, shuddering breath, and he felt euphoric with relief following the confession. The truth was precious, something he guarded so rigidly and offered so infrequently, a by-product of growing up under his father’s poisonous eye. But he offered it to his dearest friend, more valuable to him than gold, wrapped up tightly along with his heart.
“Would it be wrong,” Clark asked him, unable to believe the words coming out of his mouth, in his unsteady voice, “if I kissed you?”
“I’d consider it more wrong if you didn’t.” Clark risked meeting his gaze. His heartbeat stuttered and his cheeks grew warm.
Alex’s eyes consumed him. Clark felt the soft stroke of his thumb over his knuckles, soothing him away from indecision. He rolled partly to his side, never releasing Alex’s hand – never wanting to let him go. Clark’s face asked him for silent permission, and his touch was hesitant when he stroked Alex’s jaw, coaxing him to face him fully. Alex shivered at the caress, at the soft look Clark was giving him, and at those clear, pure green eyes that were dilated with desire for him. Clark inched the rest of the way over to him and gently, slowly brushed his lips over his, an action he didn’t feel confident enough to take with Lana less than an hour ago. Alex’s eyes drifted shut and he sighed into the kiss, then returned it, feeling waves of pleasure wash through him and tingle over his flesh. Alex’s advice to Clark, shared in this same loft not long ago, on a night like this one came back to him, and he wanted to laugh: Clark’s approach was successful.
His heart pounded in his chest when Clark’s fingers explored him, stroking the smooth slope of his jaw before wrapping around the base of his neck. His thumb feathered over the back of his head, making him shiver again as those petal-soft lips stroked his, again and again, slanting over them with more pressure, heat and passion that stole Alex’s breath. Alex needed to touch him, to know him more intimately than previous contact had taught him. Clark groaned in pleasure as Alex combed his fingers through his hair, sifting through its soft, thick curls; a jolt of desire shot through him at the light scrape of Alex’s fingernails against his scalp. His fingers trailed down his throat, following the taut cords of muscle and tracing his rapid pulse.
Alex opened himself to him, and Clark gasped as his velvety tongue swept inside the recess of his mouth. His fingers fisted themselves in the collar of Alex’s shirt. His head swam with passion. Alex was his entire focus, his universe; all he heard were the soft sounds of need clawing their way up from his throat; his light cologne tickled his nostrils, underscored by his natural warm scent; Clark tasted something faintly acidic and bitter on his breath, not realizing it was brandy, but he closed in on his flavors, drinking them in with endless thirst.

He shuddered as Alex withdrew, but he felt smug when he saw him briefly lick his lips, capturing the last taste of him. His eyes were glazed and his breath sawed in and out of his chest.
“Clark,” Alex whispered.
“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.” His smile was bashful, and so beautiful it made Alex ache.
“Damn it, Clark,” Alex groaned, closing his eyes and exhaling heavily. “I wanted this, too, but…”
Clark didn’t like the sound of wanted or the rueful look that settled over his features. Clark stroked his thumb over his fingers where their hand was still joined. “But what?”
“We can’t do this. I can’t let you do this.” Alex rolled to his back and shook his head. The passion between them ebbed away, and Clark frowned.
“Alex, I want-“
“You don’t know what you want,” he argued. “Not this. It’s… it’s all wrong.” He released himself from Clark’s grip and leaned up on his elbows, rubbing his eyes while he brought his emotions to heel. “What we’re doing, Clark… it’s not right.”
“It doesn’t feel wrong, Lex.”
“It’s deviant, Clark.” The word burned its way off of his tongue, poisonous… just like him. “I can’t let you go down this road with me.”
“Lex… I’d go anywhere with you.” He leaned up and pulled himself to a sitting position, hugging his knees to his chest and studying the texture of the blanket far too intently. “You don’t want me,” he guessed sadly.
“I can’t want you.” Clark’s profile was picked out in the soft glow shining in through the skylight, and Alex sighed when the full lips pouted, when the dark curls rustled as he shook his head.
“If I want you, and if you want me, then it’s not wrong.” His voice was earnest, pulling at him. Alex wanted so badly to reach for him. His hands toyed with rough weave of the blanket.
“Your parents wouldn’t agree with you. Neither would the town. Clark… you have a chance at a wonderful life. You’re young. Lana has her eye on you.” Alex sighed. “You could have your pick of any woman you want.”
“What if that’s not what I want?”
“That’s not what you said earlier.”
“I like her. I do. But, Alex,” he admitted, and he leveled him with a look that made time stop, “she doesn’t make me feel the way you do.”
Alex’s heart warred with common sense. He longed for him, on some level always knew that Clark had stolen a piece of his soul from the moment they met and guarded it closely, with everything he had.
“You don’t know how you feel about me. And I can’t – won’t – let you take this any further. This didn’t happen. I’m your friend. I’ll always be your friend, Clark.” Clark’s eyes squeezed shut, and Alex felt waves of disappointment and hurt rolling off of him, making the proud shoulders droop.
“It won’t be enough.” Clark wouldn’t look at him as he rose and headed for the ladder, but instead of climbing down, he jumped down to the ground, and Alex grunted at the slight tremor that rocked the loft.
“Clark, please!” Clark stalked back toward the house, and Alex bowed his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Damn it…”
He climbed down from the loft and untied his mount, hanging the empty feed bag on a hook. The road loomed ahead of him, dark and lonely. He didn’t glance back over his shoulder at the modest house, not trusting his resolve if he saw Clark watching him.
- 13
- 14
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