SV fic post: East of the Sun part 5
2/21/08 09:38 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: East of the Sun
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Lex/people, eventually clex
Rating:G
Word Count: 2046
Summary: Lex learns about trust and love from an unlikely source.
Notes/Warnings: this is me putting the boys in my version of the swing era, just to see how pretty they look.
Many, many thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
danceswithgary for beta duty, and the beautiful cover!
Smallville
Clark opened his eyes and stepped back with a shy little smile. He felt good--warm and relaxed. He was sure that he'd done it right; he felt it in his bones. His throat felt a little tight, but he'd get better—he knew every time he'd get better, because Mr. Banner would teach him the right way. He wiped his damp palms on his thighs and blushed. Mr. Banner was smiling at him. Maybe he had sounded as good as he'd hoped. The rest of the choir headed off the stage, chattering and laughing. Mr. Banner called him over before he could follow the rest.
"Clark, very well done. You're sure your parents are going to let you take the solo spot?"
"I'm pretty sure. My mom said she'd get my dad to agree…," he stopped at Mr. Banner's frown.
"Clark," he said gently, "the performance is Sunday night…I can't risk that we'll not have our soloist that night. I'm going to have to give it to Kevin. I'm, sorry, because I do think you sing it very well."
Clark wanted to shout, to break something, but he just nodded and said, "Of course, sir, I understand."
He walked home slowly, feeling weighed down by disappointment. He'd really wanted that spot, he'd wanted that chance to shine at something, if only for a brief moment. He'd had every faith that Mom would change his dad's mind. He *knew* that if Dad understood how important it was to him, he wouldn’t refuse him. It wasn't like baseball, or football, where he might accidentally hurt someone….oh gosh. What he should do was think of all he had to be thankful for—he had choir and church, something he shared with his mother, his sister. Dad…well, Dad didn't go much beyond Christmas and Easter. Not that Dad didn’t believe, he just didn't believe in church, something Clark didn’t understand. He loved going to church. It was the one place he felt like himself. In church, he felt God, felt loved, felt…normal. God understood what was in his heart. He stopped and sighed. Of course, he knew too that his dad wasn't doing what he did out of spite. Dad was probably right about all the things he was worried about.
Just…he strolled on, hurrying a little as it got dark. It was just…having to be average in school and everywhere else was hard work. Sure, Dad knew it was, he said he did, but he couldn't really know. No one could. Besides, Dad might be worried for him, but he worried about everyone. He knew there were people in the world who'd want to hurt someone like him, hurt his family just because he was different.
A rustle of movement off the roadside jerked Clark back to full attention of his surroundings—for a moment, he swore twin points of bright green light were gleaming in the bushes, and shuddered. He hoped desperately it wasn't one of those things that popped up in Smallville too frequently. He remembered that one winter when the man who owned the field adjoining theirs walked naked from his house to theirs, snow exploding into steam with each footstep and all the way he screamed 'won't be cold no more.' He'd burst into flame and burned to a crisp in their yard. Took a tool shed with him…the fire had been tinged a violent green…Clark shivered again. Green like the rock scattered across Smallville, the stuff that made people go all odd, changed them in bad ways sometimes—made him so sick he wanted to die...he touched a little cross made of silver, decorated with a tiny, tiny chip of the green stone. It flared slightly when he touched it.
In very small amounts it was God's answers to his prayers to be normal….
@@@@@@
Once he arrived home, any thought of his disappointment was pushed away. He went to his room, took off his good shirt and trousers, and put on his working clothes. His overalls were pretty well worn, the denim nearly white with age and washing, much more comfortable than his school clothes. Clark whistled a little, sang a little as he headed out to the yard. His routine was comfortable too—necessary even, more so in the last year after…after finding everything—all of it--out. Nearly every day, it was the same. He did his evening chores, then came dinner and after that, homework. Wednesdays, there was church after dinner, and choir practice. If his parents didn’t need a babysitter or any extra chores done, he went to the library, and every once in a while, the movies. That was an extra special kind of treat, mostly after he'd managed to save money. Most times, he'd take his little sister. She loved movies as much as he did, and she was pretty good company for a little kid.
He trotted down the steps of his room in the barn's loft and out to the chicken coop. He filled a feed bucket for the chickens, singing something he'd heard on the radio on his way out to the yard—Mom must be listening to her soap opera. She was probably in the living room with Hannah, shelling peas or something. He could look if he tried really hard, but he didn't like to.
The dusty smell of the coop made him grimace; tan dust rose around his feet as he shuffled around the fenced-in feed area. He filled the troughs and ignored the chickens scolding him, crazy reptilian eyes focused on him as he checked their water. He snarled at the rooster. They had an adversarial relationship—the damn bird always looked like it was one second from trying to attack him. "Try it," he muttered, "you'll be sorry." He glanced guiltily towards the farmhouse. Getting angry was a big nix. Angry meant loss of control, and loss of control could lead to accidents. He'd had it drummed into his head for so long, that losing his temper made him feel really bad—guilty as heck. He was used to his life as balancing act, it was pretty much second nature to him. There were times, though, that it felt like there were two Clarks inside him—good Clark, and bad Clark, and bad Clark was the one who sometimes entertained the thought it might be worth a blazing headache to singe that rooster's tail feathers.
Done with the chickens, he left their little kingdom to head to the truck sheds. The row of open fronted sheds held their truck, and the older of a pair of tractors they owned, plus bits of various vehicles Dad cannibalized to keep the truck going. Even though they hadn't been hit quite as hard as other parts of the state, the drought had still been a harsh lesson for the farmers in this area. People didn't waste--no one threw anything that had potential use away, and boy, had his dad elevated thrift to an art.
He glanced in the open fronted shed to see if his dad was there--no sign of him. Clark walked past the shed and headed towards the barn, walking around the wooden field carts. He eyed them, checked for repair work that might be needed…no sign of Dad there either, so he must be up in the field, or over in their little apple orchard. Clark turned around and headed back to the pump to finish up his chores. He filled buckets with water, brought them to the cow shed. He filled their troughs and then filled a bucket for himself and lugged it into the barn. He took off his shirt and hung it on a nail put there just for that, and washed down quickly. The sound of the tractor getting louder and louder in the distance--Dad was on his way back from the orchard. He refilled the bucket with clean water for his dad so he wouldn't have to, and headed to the house.
His sister greeted him first. "Clark," she yelled as he came in through the screen door. "Come look what we did today!" She proudly showed him a plate on which lumpy cookies sat, still warm. "They're oatmeal," she said seriously. "Oatmeal is very healthy for you."
His mom smiled, winked at him, and he smiled back. "Well, they're just beautiful, Hannah. I hate to eat them, they look so pretty."
"Oh, no! Me and Mom made them to eat. You have to eat them or that would be wasteful," she said firmly.
"Promise, if it's okay, I'll have one after dinner. Is there anything I can do, ma'am?" he asked his mom.
"No, Clark, as soon as Dad comes in, we can eat—and here he is."
A tall man with dark blond hair strolled into the room, hanging his jacket by the door. "Mom, Hannah, Clark. I guess we're ready to eat, right?"
His mom smiled, and Clark and Hannah both smiled. When his mom smiled, it was like the sun coming out. Clark had no idea how much the same it was him. "Sit down, Jon. Hannah honey, get the lemonade, will you?"
Hannah climbed off her chair, and brought a pitcher of lemonade to the table, and they waited as she carefully poured glasses for them all, relishing the responsibility.
Dad led them in saying grace and they ate, and chatted about their day, his mom telling them about the new store opening on Main, she'd heard about it at the dry goods store.
"Mr. Arkham said it was a sure bet to go under—just too many things. People like personal service, he says. I think he's right."
His dad nodded, and chewed thoughtfully. "Mmm. Though, it sure would be handy to go to one place and get what ya needed. Time saver. The big cities have had them for years. Department stores. Time we had our own."
His mom didn't look convinced, but that's the way it was—she was kind of slow to accept change, but Dad was pretty excited in his own way about it. He liked gadgets, he liked the new, he liked a mystery…Clark smiled at him. Lucky for him, he guessed, or who knew what would have happened to that baby boy dropped in the cornfield that day. Dad was his hero, sure as could be. Without him…Clark's fingers closed on the tiny silver cross…it was his dad's help that made him appear to be a normal guy.
After dinner, he went up to his room over the barn floor. He lit the lantern and started in on his homework. A few quiet minutes went by and he heard footsteps on the stair. He smiled, had to be Hannah, and there she was holding a book and a stuffed cat Mom had made her years back.
"Clark, I noticed you seemed a little down tonight. I know how much you enjoy reading to me…" she held out the book with a slightly challenging look, daring her brother to even hint that her generosity might not be entirely selfless. "I'm too old to be read to, but I know it's comforting to you."
He sat back in his chair and nodded. "You're very observant, Miss Hannah. I was indeed feeling a little off my feed tonight. And I'd be pleased to read a bit to you—just to make me feel better, of course."
She nodded solemnly." Of course."
He stood and put his book down. "We can read in your room, in case you fall asleep, though with my dramatic enactment of all the scenes, that's hardly going to happen, is it?"
"Well," she said, "it has happened that I've fallen asleep." She grinned. "But I blame that on Beans. He's just too warm and cuddly."
Clark nodded. "That's why he's my favorite too."
She handed him the cat, and speaking so seriously, Clark knew it would be awful to smile, she said, "Clark…it's okay. Whatever's bothering you, it's okay. And don’t worry about being too old for Beans. I'll keep your secret." She grinned at him. "I'm pretty good at that, big brother."
He pulled her pony tail. "You sure are, Banana, you are good at that."
part6
TBC
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Lex/people, eventually clex
Rating:G
Word Count: 2046
Summary: Lex learns about trust and love from an unlikely source.
Notes/Warnings: this is me putting the boys in my version of the swing era, just to see how pretty they look.
Many, many thanks to
danceswithgary for beta duty, and the beautiful cover!Smallville
Clark opened his eyes and stepped back with a shy little smile. He felt good--warm and relaxed. He was sure that he'd done it right; he felt it in his bones. His throat felt a little tight, but he'd get better—he knew every time he'd get better, because Mr. Banner would teach him the right way. He wiped his damp palms on his thighs and blushed. Mr. Banner was smiling at him. Maybe he had sounded as good as he'd hoped. The rest of the choir headed off the stage, chattering and laughing. Mr. Banner called him over before he could follow the rest.
"Clark, very well done. You're sure your parents are going to let you take the solo spot?"
"I'm pretty sure. My mom said she'd get my dad to agree…," he stopped at Mr. Banner's frown.
"Clark," he said gently, "the performance is Sunday night…I can't risk that we'll not have our soloist that night. I'm going to have to give it to Kevin. I'm, sorry, because I do think you sing it very well."
Clark wanted to shout, to break something, but he just nodded and said, "Of course, sir, I understand."
He walked home slowly, feeling weighed down by disappointment. He'd really wanted that spot, he'd wanted that chance to shine at something, if only for a brief moment. He'd had every faith that Mom would change his dad's mind. He *knew* that if Dad understood how important it was to him, he wouldn’t refuse him. It wasn't like baseball, or football, where he might accidentally hurt someone….oh gosh. What he should do was think of all he had to be thankful for—he had choir and church, something he shared with his mother, his sister. Dad…well, Dad didn't go much beyond Christmas and Easter. Not that Dad didn’t believe, he just didn't believe in church, something Clark didn’t understand. He loved going to church. It was the one place he felt like himself. In church, he felt God, felt loved, felt…normal. God understood what was in his heart. He stopped and sighed. Of course, he knew too that his dad wasn't doing what he did out of spite. Dad was probably right about all the things he was worried about.
Just…he strolled on, hurrying a little as it got dark. It was just…having to be average in school and everywhere else was hard work. Sure, Dad knew it was, he said he did, but he couldn't really know. No one could. Besides, Dad might be worried for him, but he worried about everyone. He knew there were people in the world who'd want to hurt someone like him, hurt his family just because he was different.
A rustle of movement off the roadside jerked Clark back to full attention of his surroundings—for a moment, he swore twin points of bright green light were gleaming in the bushes, and shuddered. He hoped desperately it wasn't one of those things that popped up in Smallville too frequently. He remembered that one winter when the man who owned the field adjoining theirs walked naked from his house to theirs, snow exploding into steam with each footstep and all the way he screamed 'won't be cold no more.' He'd burst into flame and burned to a crisp in their yard. Took a tool shed with him…the fire had been tinged a violent green…Clark shivered again. Green like the rock scattered across Smallville, the stuff that made people go all odd, changed them in bad ways sometimes—made him so sick he wanted to die...he touched a little cross made of silver, decorated with a tiny, tiny chip of the green stone. It flared slightly when he touched it.
In very small amounts it was God's answers to his prayers to be normal….
@@@@@@
Once he arrived home, any thought of his disappointment was pushed away. He went to his room, took off his good shirt and trousers, and put on his working clothes. His overalls were pretty well worn, the denim nearly white with age and washing, much more comfortable than his school clothes. Clark whistled a little, sang a little as he headed out to the yard. His routine was comfortable too—necessary even, more so in the last year after…after finding everything—all of it--out. Nearly every day, it was the same. He did his evening chores, then came dinner and after that, homework. Wednesdays, there was church after dinner, and choir practice. If his parents didn’t need a babysitter or any extra chores done, he went to the library, and every once in a while, the movies. That was an extra special kind of treat, mostly after he'd managed to save money. Most times, he'd take his little sister. She loved movies as much as he did, and she was pretty good company for a little kid.
He trotted down the steps of his room in the barn's loft and out to the chicken coop. He filled a feed bucket for the chickens, singing something he'd heard on the radio on his way out to the yard—Mom must be listening to her soap opera. She was probably in the living room with Hannah, shelling peas or something. He could look if he tried really hard, but he didn't like to.
The dusty smell of the coop made him grimace; tan dust rose around his feet as he shuffled around the fenced-in feed area. He filled the troughs and ignored the chickens scolding him, crazy reptilian eyes focused on him as he checked their water. He snarled at the rooster. They had an adversarial relationship—the damn bird always looked like it was one second from trying to attack him. "Try it," he muttered, "you'll be sorry." He glanced guiltily towards the farmhouse. Getting angry was a big nix. Angry meant loss of control, and loss of control could lead to accidents. He'd had it drummed into his head for so long, that losing his temper made him feel really bad—guilty as heck. He was used to his life as balancing act, it was pretty much second nature to him. There were times, though, that it felt like there were two Clarks inside him—good Clark, and bad Clark, and bad Clark was the one who sometimes entertained the thought it might be worth a blazing headache to singe that rooster's tail feathers.
Done with the chickens, he left their little kingdom to head to the truck sheds. The row of open fronted sheds held their truck, and the older of a pair of tractors they owned, plus bits of various vehicles Dad cannibalized to keep the truck going. Even though they hadn't been hit quite as hard as other parts of the state, the drought had still been a harsh lesson for the farmers in this area. People didn't waste--no one threw anything that had potential use away, and boy, had his dad elevated thrift to an art.
He glanced in the open fronted shed to see if his dad was there--no sign of him. Clark walked past the shed and headed towards the barn, walking around the wooden field carts. He eyed them, checked for repair work that might be needed…no sign of Dad there either, so he must be up in the field, or over in their little apple orchard. Clark turned around and headed back to the pump to finish up his chores. He filled buckets with water, brought them to the cow shed. He filled their troughs and then filled a bucket for himself and lugged it into the barn. He took off his shirt and hung it on a nail put there just for that, and washed down quickly. The sound of the tractor getting louder and louder in the distance--Dad was on his way back from the orchard. He refilled the bucket with clean water for his dad so he wouldn't have to, and headed to the house.
His sister greeted him first. "Clark," she yelled as he came in through the screen door. "Come look what we did today!" She proudly showed him a plate on which lumpy cookies sat, still warm. "They're oatmeal," she said seriously. "Oatmeal is very healthy for you."
His mom smiled, winked at him, and he smiled back. "Well, they're just beautiful, Hannah. I hate to eat them, they look so pretty."
"Oh, no! Me and Mom made them to eat. You have to eat them or that would be wasteful," she said firmly.
"Promise, if it's okay, I'll have one after dinner. Is there anything I can do, ma'am?" he asked his mom.
"No, Clark, as soon as Dad comes in, we can eat—and here he is."
A tall man with dark blond hair strolled into the room, hanging his jacket by the door. "Mom, Hannah, Clark. I guess we're ready to eat, right?"
His mom smiled, and Clark and Hannah both smiled. When his mom smiled, it was like the sun coming out. Clark had no idea how much the same it was him. "Sit down, Jon. Hannah honey, get the lemonade, will you?"
Hannah climbed off her chair, and brought a pitcher of lemonade to the table, and they waited as she carefully poured glasses for them all, relishing the responsibility.
Dad led them in saying grace and they ate, and chatted about their day, his mom telling them about the new store opening on Main, she'd heard about it at the dry goods store.
"Mr. Arkham said it was a sure bet to go under—just too many things. People like personal service, he says. I think he's right."
His dad nodded, and chewed thoughtfully. "Mmm. Though, it sure would be handy to go to one place and get what ya needed. Time saver. The big cities have had them for years. Department stores. Time we had our own."
His mom didn't look convinced, but that's the way it was—she was kind of slow to accept change, but Dad was pretty excited in his own way about it. He liked gadgets, he liked the new, he liked a mystery…Clark smiled at him. Lucky for him, he guessed, or who knew what would have happened to that baby boy dropped in the cornfield that day. Dad was his hero, sure as could be. Without him…Clark's fingers closed on the tiny silver cross…it was his dad's help that made him appear to be a normal guy.
After dinner, he went up to his room over the barn floor. He lit the lantern and started in on his homework. A few quiet minutes went by and he heard footsteps on the stair. He smiled, had to be Hannah, and there she was holding a book and a stuffed cat Mom had made her years back.
"Clark, I noticed you seemed a little down tonight. I know how much you enjoy reading to me…" she held out the book with a slightly challenging look, daring her brother to even hint that her generosity might not be entirely selfless. "I'm too old to be read to, but I know it's comforting to you."
He sat back in his chair and nodded. "You're very observant, Miss Hannah. I was indeed feeling a little off my feed tonight. And I'd be pleased to read a bit to you—just to make me feel better, of course."
She nodded solemnly." Of course."
He stood and put his book down. "We can read in your room, in case you fall asleep, though with my dramatic enactment of all the scenes, that's hardly going to happen, is it?"
"Well," she said, "it has happened that I've fallen asleep." She grinned. "But I blame that on Beans. He's just too warm and cuddly."
Clark nodded. "That's why he's my favorite too."
She handed him the cat, and speaking so seriously, Clark knew it would be awful to smile, she said, "Clark…it's okay. Whatever's bothering you, it's okay. And don’t worry about being too old for Beans. I'll keep your secret." She grinned at him. "I'm pretty good at that, big brother."
He pulled her pony tail. "You sure are, Banana, you are good at that."
part6
TBC
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Re: God understood what was in his heart.
2/23/08 11:38 pm (UTC)That is a sound I miss too. I've done a religious Clark before--I figure in this time period, religion is something that's very important to these people, not only for religion's sake, but for community and entertainment. Clark especially hopes a feeling of belonging through the church, because he knows he's different.
but damn hell, you clark is too good, how will he end up with lex?
what do you think Whit is for? *G*