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Privileged	By : CeeCee Category: Smallville > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 1393 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Disclaimer: I don’t own the Smallville fandom. These characters belong to Warner Bros. I’m not making any money to write this piece of sh…I mean, fiction.

Chapter List
- 1-Privileged
- 2-In from the Cold
- 1
- 2
Summary: The spider lures the flies into his web.

Nanny was tight-lipped when Martha announced that they would no longer have to rely on her generosity, questionable though it was. Martha packed up their meager belongings once she'd finished cleaning the kitchen, leaving it spotless, but the boardinghouse mistress still found last minute opportunities to nitpick and fuss. Clark didn't escape her scrutiny, either.

"The world isn't kind to the disadvantaged, mark my words."

"We're hardly disadvantaged," Jonathan argued. "We've come this far and survived this long. Luck is with us, Nanny."

"Rubbish. Not many in Metropis are as kind to the needy as I am." Martha wisely held her tongue, which was typical of most exchanged between the two women. "You Irish and your luck," she muttered as she turned from her and bustled to her counter to knead an enormous mound of risen dough.

"Aye, and we're lucky," Jonathan agreed as he looked up from his book. Nanny gave him a look of disgust, giving the dough a sound thwack. Martha rolled her eyes and swatted him with her rolled-up towel.

Clark lingered upstairs in their tiny room, playing with a spinning top. He flicked it and watched it glide across Nanny's immaculately polished floor. He munched thoughtfully on a red Macintosh apple and listened to Nanny blistering his parents' ears, grateful for a change that he wasn't in the kitchen downstairs. He chased the tip of the top, bumping it to make it ricochet and veer off its chosen path. His own path was about to change course, due to circumstances beyond his control.
*

"Mrs. Smith, I want those rooms aired, the two in the west wing," Lionel ordered briskly as he cut another bite of his steak, knife scraping against the gold-rimmed china. His thick-jowled housekeeper looked up from polishing the silver.

"The west wing, sir?"

"Yes, those two rooms will do nicely. Make them up in the old blue linens."

"The old ones, sir? They're practically threadbare!"

"I've no doubt that they're better than anything that they're accustomed to," he replied dryly. "The blue ones, Mrs. Smith."

"Yes, Mr. Luthor." She finished her task quickly and laid the polished flatware in the velvet-lined box before returning it to the tall cabinet in the living room. As she passed the table, she automatically poured him another cup of black tea, dropping in a sugar cube with a small pair of tongs. He nodded his thanks and handed her the smaller, empty plate, dusted with crumbs from his finished toast.

He retired to his living room after breakfast, treating himself to a few pages of Christopher Marlowe's Faust before he went to work. He chuckled softly over Mephistopheles' offer of Helen of Troy. The winter sun warmed his stocking feet where they rested on the ottoman, and his tranquility was complete.

It was obliterated by the abrupt shrieks from the front yard.

"GO BACK INSIDE, FANCY PANTS! YOU BABY!" Lionel winced, then sighed at the familiar taunts as he closed his book. He listened further, mentally cataloging their voices. One if them sounded like the Teague boy, which didn't surprise him.

"GROW SOME HAIR!"

Lionel's fingers drummed against the cherry wood arm of his damask-upholstered chair. That had to be Whitney. He heard the sounds of scuffling and of something falling against the pavement. Lionel rose slowly, setting his book down on the side table. He stepped into his short black boots, freshly polished, and he strode outside.

"Where's Hurley?

"Getting the carriage ready," she explained from under the weight of an armload of blankets.

"That explains it," he muttered under his breath. Lionel decided to handle things himself. He went to the coatrack, and Mrs. Smith automatically dropped what she was doing and lifted his heavy coat from the peg, helping him shrug into it. He didn't bother to button it, and she watched him exit the house in dismay.

"Poor child," she clucked. She pitied her young charge, unfairly burdened with being different from his peers. She watched Lionel approach the group of boys and his son as he struggled to pick up the books they'd knocked out of his grip. She noticed his face was bright red with humiliation and his expression was tight-lipped like he wanted to cry. "Little lamb," she muttered. "Ought to thrash those hooligans."

"Where's the master?" Hurley inquired as he came up from behind her, peering over her shoulder and looking confused.

"Outside. You could have avoided this if you'd gotten that carriage ready sooner and waited outside with the boy."

"How's this my fault? The lad could have waited inside," he pointed out in irritation.

While they bickered, Lionel sized up the boys, who stopped their sniggering just in time just in time to look like butter wouldn't melt in their mouths. "Good morning, Mr. Luthor," Whitney piped up. "Alex dropped his books."

"No, I didn't!" He snapped back, then stared up at his father beseechingly. Lionel shook his head.

"Alex is careful with his books, young man."

"He must've have tripped, Whitney supplied solemnly. "He's pretty clumsy."

"Really?" Lionel scratched his beard. The boys glanced nervously at each other but maintained their innocence. "That doesn't sound like Alexander. I heard sme commotion out here." A shiver ran through him as they assessed the tall, saturnine older man with flinty eyes. "You boys should hurry along to school."

"Father," Alex blurted out. Lionel shook his head, and Alex knew what was coming next.

"Hurley is waiting for us inside," Lionel informed him. "Go on in." Alex retrieved his fallen satchel and hefted his books against his waist, struggling under their weight as he climbed the steps. Lionel waited for the door to click shut behind him before he spoke again.

"Boys? Before you go, I'd like a word."

"Sir?" Whitney stammered, wondering how they missed their reprieve.

"I know boys your age can be impulsive, Lionel reasoned. "Perhaps you see my son as a source of amusement?"

"No, sir!" Jason lied.

"I'd hate to tell your parents what I think I heard today. I'd like to assure your father that you were on your best behavior when I see him later this morning." He turned to Whitney. "And yours."

Both boys paled. They'd heard the stories from their peers of their families' sources of income suddenly dissolving when Lionel Luthor felt he'd been slighted.

"Run along." The boys ignored the slick pavement and icy puddles, splashing through them as they dashed off. Lionel sighed and scrubbed his hand over his face. With rare exceptions, he didn't care much for children. He didn't enjoy the lesson he was about to impart to his own.

Alex's face was sullen, but his eyes darted to the ground as Lionel confronted him. "Inside."

"Hurley has the carriage ready. I'll be late." His voice held a note of desperation as he grasped at straws.

"You've shamed me enough for one morning, Alexander." Alex hesitated, then scrambled up the short steps when his father's lips tightened, signaling that punishment was imminent. Bile filled Alex's mouth, and he felt sweat breaking out over his scalp beneath his wool cap, trying to escape Lionel's eyes as they bore into his back. Mrs. Smith looked up from her polishing, not expecting to see her employer back in the house until he returned from the school. She opened her mouth, but Lionel held up his hand, shaking his head. One look into his flinty eyes silenced any admonishment she could form. She looked away guiltily from Alex's pleading eyes as he hurried past, face crumpling before he jogged up the stairs. Mrs. Smith shook off the frisson of shame, knowing that staying in Mr. Luthor's good graces meant not interfering with his discipline. Her ears heard the low thumps of Alex's boots hitting the floor one at a time and the shifting of fabric before the door to his room clicked loudly shut. His father's voice was muffled, and Alexander was oddly silent until she heard the first crack of leather against vulnerable flesh. Mrs. Smith's eyes pricked, and she flinched at he sound of each blow until she remembered her neglected chore.

Every piece of furniture was gleaming once thy came back downstairs. Alex's eyes were a dull, bloodshot gray and his cheeks were pink from crying. He glanced solemnly at Mrs. Smith and reached for his satchel when she handed it to him.

"Have a good day at school, Master Alexander."

"Goodbye, ma'am," he told her sullenly as she held open the front door. She returned Lionel's nod as he exited into the crisp air and snow, wrapping a muffler around his neck. Hurley jerked open the carriage door and nodded to them as he let them inside, and the look he shot Mrs. Smith frustrated her; he looked chastened that he didn't intercept the boys from harassing his boss' son. She turned her back on him and resumed her morning routine before going up to straighten the blue guest room.

An hour later, a narrow cot that she brought down from the attic joined the large bed, which she made up with the well-worn but clean linens, a downy blanket and Alexander's old baby quilt. Mrs. Smith rummaged through the trunks and retrieved several old treasures, toys and books that Alexander had outgrown that made her misty-eyed. The Kents had a son, from what she's been told. She hoped he would make a suitable playmate, but who knew, with them being straight off the boat? Lionel had mentioned that Jonathan Kent was a farmer by trade, so who knew what use he would have for him around the house?

Mrs. Smith dusted the knickknacks and wall hangings and took the rugs downstairs to beat them out back. The house was quiet except for Thompson, Lionel's butler, who was taking the whistling kettle from the stove and pouring his morning cup. He was thin, graying and taciturn, dressed in gray livery and a plain white apron.

"You'll need to run to the store. We're nearly out of sugar, and I plan to make a roast tonight."

"Run there yourself!" he snapped. "I've my own chores, woman." She swatted him soundly with a wooden spoon and he smothered a curse.

"No one needs your sass, Thompson." Mrs. Smith pulled down several pots and pans from their hooks overhead. "And get me some peas. They're Mr. Luthor's favorite."

"Kiss up to that snake on your own time," he sneered. Despite his protests, once he'd finished most of his tea a few minutes later, he bundled up and tramped out the door, leaving the housekeeper alone to contemplate the day.

She hoped the Kents fit in. They didn't know what they were in for.
*
They arrived at the house on foot, following the neatly written directions that Lionel had given him. He tucked the scrap of paper into his coat pocket and let Martha and Clark precede him up the front steps, ensuring they didn't slip. Clark couldn't restrain his excitement as he reached up for the ornate door knocker and rapped the heavy ring against the wood.

"Da, it's like a castle!" Clark exclaimed, eyes dancing. "We're going to live here?"

"Aye, we are, lad." Jonathan heard clumping, heavy footsteps through the door, and a pudgy hand parted the lace curtain covering the glass pane. Two slightly beady blue eyes peaked out at them before the curtain swished back into place. The door was yanked open by a florid, pudding-faced woman of middle years. She appraised them haughtily.

"You'll be the Kents?"

"Aye, lass. Jonathan, Martha, and our son Clark." Her eyes flicked down to Clark. His lips twitched and he ducked behind Martha, suddenly bashful.

"Come in, then, you're letting in the draft. Cold as a spinster's bed out there. Step lively, and use the mat. I just mopped." They paused on their way to knock the snow from their boots off on the thick, tweedy mat. Mrs. Smith tutted; their clothes looked clean but worn. "Are those all the things you have?" She looked down at the suitcases and battered straw basket that the adults carried in surprise.

"That's all we were allowed on the ship," Martha admitted.

"Perhaps that's for the best," Mrs. Smith murmured. "Your room is upstairs." She noticed Clark eyeing the knickknacks and narrowed her eyes. "Don't touch the Hummel! It costs more than you'll ever see in your lifetime!" Clark pulled back his hand like the ceramic figurine had burned him and darted over to his mother's side. Martha grabbed his hand to keep him close, and Clark looked up at her with the twinkle in his eye that she learned meant mischief was just around the corner.

"Behave," she whispered as they climbed the steep stairs.

"It's this one to your right," Mrs. Smith informed them. "It should do," she added, as if she dared them to argue.

"It will," Martha told her. She eyed the bedspread and suppressed her distaste. At least it was clean.

Clark was delighted, for his part, with the small pile of toys resting on the cot. There was a sack of marbles, a sketchbook, another spinning top, a teddy bear made from worn flannel, and a small toy boat.

"I need somewhere to float it," he announced.

"You'll have to settle for the tub. Bath time is before bed time." Mrs. Smith watched Martha open their suitcase. "You can use this wardrobe and dresser. It should fit all of your things. I've an old trunk in the garage if you need me to bring it down."

"This should do just fine."

"All right, then." Mrs. Smith reached out to straighten one of the doilies on the dresser. "There are rules in this house. Mr. Luthor will go over his expectations when he returns. I know you aren't used to American ways," Mrs. Smith said crisply, "but you'll have to adjust to be a part of this household. Mr. Luthor is giving you a chance most wouldn't give Irish like you." Jonathan bristled. "Be grateful for the opportunity, and don't make Mr. Luthor regret his generosity. I know this house is grander than you're used to, but don't be tempted to steal." She frowned down at Clark, who stared back, nonplussed.

"It's not nice to steal," he told her simply. Mrs. Smith eyed him sternly, but it was difficult to maintain. The boy was adorable.

"Master Luthor comes home from school at three."

"School?" Clark looked delighted. "Will I get to go?"

"We'll see, Clark," Jonathan assured him, but he exchanged a worried look with Martha. They hadn't thought that far yet; finding a home and unemployment were obstacles they had to tackle first.

"You are not to interrupt Master Alexander during his studies, young man."

"I won't," he shrugged. That promise would prove an empty one in time, but Clark hummed to himself as he upended the sack of marbles and watched them roll over the small rug and floor.

*
Alex trudged up the front steps and Hurley let him inside, reminding him to stamp his boots. Alex ignored him, instead choosing to kick them off just inside the door. "I'm home!" he called out. Mrs. Smith emerged from the kitchen and smiled as she wiped her hands on her apron.

"I've made cocoa, dear," she offered. "Come and meet Clark." Alex frowned but followed her into the kitchen once she wrangled him out of his scarf, hat and coat. The kitchen was toasty and filled with the mouthwatering scents of fresh bread and chocolate.

To his surprise, the little dark-haired boy from the street that offered him his shoddy coat smiled up at him from the table, a cup of cocoa warming his hands.

"H'lo," he told him. "I'm Clark," he reminded him.

"I know that," Alex told him huffily. "You're in my seat." Clark looked surprised, but he rose and took the chair across the table instead. He went back to his drink while Mrs. Smith poured Alex his own mug from the saucepan. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"I'm going to live upstairs," Clark explained. "Mrs. Smith gave me some marbles."

"What?" Alex scowled. "Don't lie!"

"M'not," Clark argued. "My da said so. We live here now."

"He's not lying, dear. Be polite. Clark and his parents are staying in the spare room. Mr. Kent is going to work for your father. And you'll have a friend to spend time with."

"What if I don't want to spend time with him?" Alex retorted.

"Alexander!" Mrs. Smith was appalled. Clark looked slightly hurt.

"So?" he countered. Alex stared at him with ice in his eyes. Clark merely drank his cocoa and reached for the plate of shortbread.

"If my father says you can't stay, then you can't," Alex bragged. Martha stared at him from where she stood slicing the bread by the stove.

"That's up to your father, Master Alex," Mrs. Smith chided. "That's not how we make someone welcome." She ignored her own previous lapse when she practically called the newcomers thieves, but that was beside the point.

She cleaned up after their snack, and Alex retreated to his room to study. Clark took his marbles into the sitting room and sorted them by color. Jonathan toiled outside clearing the sidewalk in front of the house of snow.

When the carriage pulled up, Hurley climbed down and opened his door, just as Jonathan was about to put away the shovel.

"Mr. Luthor," Jonathan greeted. Lionel smiled easily and shook his gloved hand.

"You found your way here."

"My family is inside."

"Them let's meet them."
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