sv fic post: East of the Sun part 13
3/6/08 12:10 pm![[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:PG
Word Count:1976
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!
Clark walked along the edge of the trestle bridge, swallowing hard. He didn’t much like being that high up with what felt like nothing between himself and the sky but a skinny wooden railing, but it was the direct route into Metropolis, and he figured it was best to keep to the trail he knew than try and find his own way. Besides, if he ignored the yawning pit under him, it was sort of nice. Pretty. The sky was a bright, cloudless blue and it was quiet but for birds--he could pick out the different calls, and a warm, Indian summer breeze brought the smell of wild flowers and the river. He sighed.
The scent of flowers reminded him of his mom but he wasn't going to think about it, wonder if she knew, was worried.... He'd put a few hours between himself and Smallville and, at the speed he'd run, he'd gone quite a long distance. He still wasn't hungry, or thirsty, or cold. The lack of his necklace really made a difference—just how much a difference he was learning, bit by bit. He'd enjoyed running, using his muscles, testing himself in that way, it felt good, but that was something he'd known about himself. He knew that sometimes he could hear—for long, long distances. He knew without the cross, he was stronger than normal. He'd been told tales of when he was a little kid, and the damage he'd done unknowingly. Most of what happened, his parents told him like they were telling a favorite family joke, but Clark knew…one time...one time, he'd hurt his mom seriously, broken her arm. Clark's eyes flooded briefly with tears. He was pretty sure his mom and dad thought he didn’t remember that.
A dragonfly buzzed around his head, dipping and swerving in front of him before taking off for the river's edge again. Clark's school bag banged against his hip—it was the only thing he'd had to use for luggage. His old sleeping bag was tied to it and he felt like a too-old version of Huck Finn, instead of a man starting out…'course, if he hadn't run away like a little boy….
He sighed loudly and adjusted the bag to lie less awkwardly. There was nothing much in it, a few changes of clothes, clean underwear…toothpowder and his brush…and a notebook, for writing letters in. When he got to the city, he'd get a job. He could do anything, and his dad was fond of saying that there was always work for strong back and a willing mind. He hoped Dad was right. As soon as he was settled, he could let his family know he was okay. He would be—he was sure of it.
Clark felt a slight vibration under his feet, but he was distracted by the return of the dragonfly, it'd brought a friend. The insects flew around and around Clark's head, and he had to laugh, wondered what it was that made him so interesting. He stepped carefully from one wooden tie to another, the slight creak of wood, the call of birds, and distant hoot of a train whistle all tied together to make music—
I'm a roaming cowboy riding all day long,
Tumbleweeds around me sing their lonely song.
Nights underneath the prairie moon,
I ride along and sing this tune.
Clark grinned and shifted his bag…that just seemed the right song for a journey. He heard the whistle again, and distance made it sound mournful--
See them tumbling down
Pledging their love to the ground
Lonely but free I'll be found
Drifting along with the tumbling tumbleweeds….*
That whistle was pretty darn close, he thought, and as he thought that, the trestle vibrated again. Train coming, he thought, and got ready to climb off the tracks. He took a deep breath, climbed down onto the metal understructure. He could sit on a cross beam—he was strong enough to hold on. He slid one foot along the beam spanning the underside of the bridge, took his hand off the upright so that he could sit—and fell. The train raced overhead, and all he heard was the scream of its passage, the shriek of metal wheels on metal tracks, the rumble of the ties, and his own voice screaming in fear. He dropped down into the chasm, down towards the river, and the rocks—maybe not far enough to kill him, not right away…his bag tried to sail away and he grabbed it to his chest, closed his eyes and screamed.
He hit the bottom of the ravine, totally missing the water; hit the bank with a sound like dynamite going off on in a pond. He lay there waiting to die. He groaned. Dying, dying, trying to breathe...the pain, the pain…wasn't nearly as bad as he'd been anticipating. Clark sipped in tiny little bits of air. He felt like that time he'd fallen from the hayloft—it'd knocked the air out of him and shook him up, but not much more than that.
He'd just fallen three times that height, hit rocks and dirt and—he rolled to his knees—made a trench in the ground, holy geez—and driven a rock deep into the dirt, a rock that should have snapped his spine. He fell shakily back to his butt. His hand was clenched around the strap of his pack and he had to force his fingers to open. He drew in a deeper breath and thought, I'm a bigger freak than I thought. He didn’t know whether to crow with joy...or cry. He was thrilled that he was still alive…and he wished he had the cross.
Clark stood, and weaved slightly. He wanted to say a prayer of thanks, but he wasn't sure if it was—right to do so.
He walked when he could have run because he didn’t see the point of running. What did it matter? He was feeling hungry, finally, and a little thirsty. Somewhere along the way, he'd have to find a place to sit, eat, maybe sleep. He was oddly tired. Clark yawned, and yawned again—he was really tired. The sun was dipping, and it was getting cooler, and he felt it. He reached into his bag and pulled out a shirt, pulled it on over the one he was wearing. He sniffed. Something was burning…no, not burning, cooking.
There was someone under the last leg of the trestle, in a little curve of the river; a man was making a fire, cooking something. He looked up when Clark's shadow fell across him, and he smiled.
"Sit, we're just about to have stew. Or a reasonable facsimile, thereof. Pull up a likely patch of dirt and have at it." The man stopped and stared at him. "Goodness. You lost your battle with the windmill, I see."
Clark looked down and winced. His clothes were stained and torn, and he was filthy. "I—I guess so," he said, not getting the reference, but understanding the intent. He dropped to his butt, and sniffed hard. The stew smelled good, and his stomach actually rumbled. "I wouldn't mind eating. Thank you, sir." He knew well enough not to ask if there was enough—you didn't insult a person by implying they didn't have much.
The man smiled and handed Clark an empty tin, and then filled it by dipping another in the pot and pouring the stew into Clark's. "I'm on my way to the jungle at the end of this line—right before we get into Metropolis."
"Oh! Metropolis--that's where I'm headed. "
"Ah, off to make your fortune, young man? Well, you're a brave sort. And adventuresome. Do your—" he started, looked Clark up and down, and just smiled. "Well. Eat up, and I'll tell you a little bit about the road."
They ate while the man talked and afterwards he pulled out a bottle of sweetly sharp-smelling alcohol. He winked at Clark and tipped the bottle up. "The waters of Lethe, my dear young man. There are such as I am, who dearly value its properties…." He took a long drink, and Clark could see his Adam's-apple bob like a duck in a pond as he swallowed. With a grateful sigh, he delicately wiped his lips and said, "Pardon my lack of manners—I failed to introduce myself. I am, young sir, Reginald Harley—Reggie to my friends."
Clark wiped his hand on his shirt and held it out to the man. "I'm Clark Kent, Mr. Harley. Thank you for feeding me."
"Reggie, dear boy, call me Reggie. I have the feeling that you and I are going to be great friends."
"Reggie," Clark smiled and looked down into his little soup 'bowl,' and completely missed the look of pain that flowed over Reggie's face before disappearing into the gentle smile that seemed to be his usual expression.
@@@@@@
The next day found them at what Reggie called the hobo jungle, under the intersection of a couple of rail lines. Clark had met hobos before, they'd come—rarely--to the farm, looking for food and work. He'd had some idea that they were people who had no homes, but…this was nothing like he'd expected.
Reggie walked him through and introduced him to the people there. The 'jungle' was a small huddle of lean-tos and tents, made of boards and tin and canvas. There were fires scattered here and there, and the people tending the fires were friendly, curious, but not at all suspicious of the stranger. Being a friend of Reggie's counted for a lot, he saw—or the 'Professor', as a few called him. Everyone knew him, called a greeting, or offered him a share of stew, a cup of coffee. There were a few men gathered in the center of the camp, chatting, boiling rags in a big pot over a fire. Clark saw, when he got closer, that the rags were clothes.
The day's events began to take their toll—Clark blinked hard, and swayed a bit. Everything began to be too intense--the thick smoke of the fires, constantly shifting shapes and shadows leaping in the dark, and the ever-present shriek and clang of the trains overhead—not to mention falling from the trestle to what he was sure was going to be his death--all of that rose up and pushed Clark close to the edge….
Seeing that Clark was dead on his feet, Reggie put a hand on the boy's shoulder and gently guided him back towards a small area that was close to the camp, but separate. He crouched in front of another hut and quickly built a little pyramid of twigs and dried moss in a circle of stones, while Clark unrolled his bag in front of the tin-sided lean-to. "Clark, you might find that sleeping under the stars becomes a vastly less desirable thing when you actually have to do it. You can sleep inside my truly humble abode, you know."
The fire caught, and Reggie blew gently on the flames until the twigs burned well.
"Oh, thank you mister—I mean--Reggie. I'm fine here. Really." The cold air held just the slightest crispness for him and the fire was more than enough to keep him warm. Reggie looked very sad for a moment—before Clark could even be sure of his expression he had his habitual small smile firmly in place. "Sleep well then, my dear boy. We'll move on in the morn—until then, sleep, and may angels watch over you."
Clark smiled, rolled to his side and pulled the edge of his bag up to his nose. Reggie was a nice guy, a real gentleman…he wondered why someone so obviously educated and mannerly was living a hobo's life.
Songs in this section
Tumbling Tumbleweeds by Sons of the Pioneers
part 14
TBC
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Lex/people, eventually clex
Rating:PG
Word Count:1976
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!Clark walked along the edge of the trestle bridge, swallowing hard. He didn’t much like being that high up with what felt like nothing between himself and the sky but a skinny wooden railing, but it was the direct route into Metropolis, and he figured it was best to keep to the trail he knew than try and find his own way. Besides, if he ignored the yawning pit under him, it was sort of nice. Pretty. The sky was a bright, cloudless blue and it was quiet but for birds--he could pick out the different calls, and a warm, Indian summer breeze brought the smell of wild flowers and the river. He sighed.
The scent of flowers reminded him of his mom but he wasn't going to think about it, wonder if she knew, was worried.... He'd put a few hours between himself and Smallville and, at the speed he'd run, he'd gone quite a long distance. He still wasn't hungry, or thirsty, or cold. The lack of his necklace really made a difference—just how much a difference he was learning, bit by bit. He'd enjoyed running, using his muscles, testing himself in that way, it felt good, but that was something he'd known about himself. He knew that sometimes he could hear—for long, long distances. He knew without the cross, he was stronger than normal. He'd been told tales of when he was a little kid, and the damage he'd done unknowingly. Most of what happened, his parents told him like they were telling a favorite family joke, but Clark knew…one time...one time, he'd hurt his mom seriously, broken her arm. Clark's eyes flooded briefly with tears. He was pretty sure his mom and dad thought he didn’t remember that.
A dragonfly buzzed around his head, dipping and swerving in front of him before taking off for the river's edge again. Clark's school bag banged against his hip—it was the only thing he'd had to use for luggage. His old sleeping bag was tied to it and he felt like a too-old version of Huck Finn, instead of a man starting out…'course, if he hadn't run away like a little boy….
He sighed loudly and adjusted the bag to lie less awkwardly. There was nothing much in it, a few changes of clothes, clean underwear…toothpowder and his brush…and a notebook, for writing letters in. When he got to the city, he'd get a job. He could do anything, and his dad was fond of saying that there was always work for strong back and a willing mind. He hoped Dad was right. As soon as he was settled, he could let his family know he was okay. He would be—he was sure of it.
Clark felt a slight vibration under his feet, but he was distracted by the return of the dragonfly, it'd brought a friend. The insects flew around and around Clark's head, and he had to laugh, wondered what it was that made him so interesting. He stepped carefully from one wooden tie to another, the slight creak of wood, the call of birds, and distant hoot of a train whistle all tied together to make music—
I'm a roaming cowboy riding all day long,
Tumbleweeds around me sing their lonely song.
Nights underneath the prairie moon,
I ride along and sing this tune.
Clark grinned and shifted his bag…that just seemed the right song for a journey. He heard the whistle again, and distance made it sound mournful--
See them tumbling down
Pledging their love to the ground
Lonely but free I'll be found
Drifting along with the tumbling tumbleweeds….*
That whistle was pretty darn close, he thought, and as he thought that, the trestle vibrated again. Train coming, he thought, and got ready to climb off the tracks. He took a deep breath, climbed down onto the metal understructure. He could sit on a cross beam—he was strong enough to hold on. He slid one foot along the beam spanning the underside of the bridge, took his hand off the upright so that he could sit—and fell. The train raced overhead, and all he heard was the scream of its passage, the shriek of metal wheels on metal tracks, the rumble of the ties, and his own voice screaming in fear. He dropped down into the chasm, down towards the river, and the rocks—maybe not far enough to kill him, not right away…his bag tried to sail away and he grabbed it to his chest, closed his eyes and screamed.
He hit the bottom of the ravine, totally missing the water; hit the bank with a sound like dynamite going off on in a pond. He lay there waiting to die. He groaned. Dying, dying, trying to breathe...the pain, the pain…wasn't nearly as bad as he'd been anticipating. Clark sipped in tiny little bits of air. He felt like that time he'd fallen from the hayloft—it'd knocked the air out of him and shook him up, but not much more than that.
He'd just fallen three times that height, hit rocks and dirt and—he rolled to his knees—made a trench in the ground, holy geez—and driven a rock deep into the dirt, a rock that should have snapped his spine. He fell shakily back to his butt. His hand was clenched around the strap of his pack and he had to force his fingers to open. He drew in a deeper breath and thought, I'm a bigger freak than I thought. He didn’t know whether to crow with joy...or cry. He was thrilled that he was still alive…and he wished he had the cross.
Clark stood, and weaved slightly. He wanted to say a prayer of thanks, but he wasn't sure if it was—right to do so.
He walked when he could have run because he didn’t see the point of running. What did it matter? He was feeling hungry, finally, and a little thirsty. Somewhere along the way, he'd have to find a place to sit, eat, maybe sleep. He was oddly tired. Clark yawned, and yawned again—he was really tired. The sun was dipping, and it was getting cooler, and he felt it. He reached into his bag and pulled out a shirt, pulled it on over the one he was wearing. He sniffed. Something was burning…no, not burning, cooking.
There was someone under the last leg of the trestle, in a little curve of the river; a man was making a fire, cooking something. He looked up when Clark's shadow fell across him, and he smiled.
"Sit, we're just about to have stew. Or a reasonable facsimile, thereof. Pull up a likely patch of dirt and have at it." The man stopped and stared at him. "Goodness. You lost your battle with the windmill, I see."
Clark looked down and winced. His clothes were stained and torn, and he was filthy. "I—I guess so," he said, not getting the reference, but understanding the intent. He dropped to his butt, and sniffed hard. The stew smelled good, and his stomach actually rumbled. "I wouldn't mind eating. Thank you, sir." He knew well enough not to ask if there was enough—you didn't insult a person by implying they didn't have much.
The man smiled and handed Clark an empty tin, and then filled it by dipping another in the pot and pouring the stew into Clark's. "I'm on my way to the jungle at the end of this line—right before we get into Metropolis."
"Oh! Metropolis--that's where I'm headed. "
"Ah, off to make your fortune, young man? Well, you're a brave sort. And adventuresome. Do your—" he started, looked Clark up and down, and just smiled. "Well. Eat up, and I'll tell you a little bit about the road."
They ate while the man talked and afterwards he pulled out a bottle of sweetly sharp-smelling alcohol. He winked at Clark and tipped the bottle up. "The waters of Lethe, my dear young man. There are such as I am, who dearly value its properties…." He took a long drink, and Clark could see his Adam's-apple bob like a duck in a pond as he swallowed. With a grateful sigh, he delicately wiped his lips and said, "Pardon my lack of manners—I failed to introduce myself. I am, young sir, Reginald Harley—Reggie to my friends."
Clark wiped his hand on his shirt and held it out to the man. "I'm Clark Kent, Mr. Harley. Thank you for feeding me."
"Reggie, dear boy, call me Reggie. I have the feeling that you and I are going to be great friends."
"Reggie," Clark smiled and looked down into his little soup 'bowl,' and completely missed the look of pain that flowed over Reggie's face before disappearing into the gentle smile that seemed to be his usual expression.
@@@@@@
The next day found them at what Reggie called the hobo jungle, under the intersection of a couple of rail lines. Clark had met hobos before, they'd come—rarely--to the farm, looking for food and work. He'd had some idea that they were people who had no homes, but…this was nothing like he'd expected.
Reggie walked him through and introduced him to the people there. The 'jungle' was a small huddle of lean-tos and tents, made of boards and tin and canvas. There were fires scattered here and there, and the people tending the fires were friendly, curious, but not at all suspicious of the stranger. Being a friend of Reggie's counted for a lot, he saw—or the 'Professor', as a few called him. Everyone knew him, called a greeting, or offered him a share of stew, a cup of coffee. There were a few men gathered in the center of the camp, chatting, boiling rags in a big pot over a fire. Clark saw, when he got closer, that the rags were clothes.
The day's events began to take their toll—Clark blinked hard, and swayed a bit. Everything began to be too intense--the thick smoke of the fires, constantly shifting shapes and shadows leaping in the dark, and the ever-present shriek and clang of the trains overhead—not to mention falling from the trestle to what he was sure was going to be his death--all of that rose up and pushed Clark close to the edge….
Seeing that Clark was dead on his feet, Reggie put a hand on the boy's shoulder and gently guided him back towards a small area that was close to the camp, but separate. He crouched in front of another hut and quickly built a little pyramid of twigs and dried moss in a circle of stones, while Clark unrolled his bag in front of the tin-sided lean-to. "Clark, you might find that sleeping under the stars becomes a vastly less desirable thing when you actually have to do it. You can sleep inside my truly humble abode, you know."
The fire caught, and Reggie blew gently on the flames until the twigs burned well.
"Oh, thank you mister—I mean--Reggie. I'm fine here. Really." The cold air held just the slightest crispness for him and the fire was more than enough to keep him warm. Reggie looked very sad for a moment—before Clark could even be sure of his expression he had his habitual small smile firmly in place. "Sleep well then, my dear boy. We'll move on in the morn—until then, sleep, and may angels watch over you."
Clark smiled, rolled to his side and pulled the edge of his bag up to his nose. Reggie was a nice guy, a real gentleman…he wondered why someone so obviously educated and mannerly was living a hobo's life.
Songs in this section
Tumbling Tumbleweeds by Sons of the Pioneers
part 14
TBC
Tags:
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
3/6/08 08:44 pm (UTC)(no subject)
3/6/08 11:40 pm (UTC)Well, I like Reggie a lot...*smiles*
(no subject)
3/8/08 02:39 am (UTC)this reply didn't come to my mailbox. grrrr, LJ.
great, i feel free to like reggie too, now. he was a gentleman in this chapter, for sure.