Chapter 3: I Am Here for You [Nayib's Song]

Jonathan Kent couldn't sleep. There was no real reason, just that he was too� awake.

He sighed, readjusting the pillow behind his head for the thirtieth time, and checked the clock. It was ten fifteen. As opposed to the ten thirteen that it was an hour ago. At least it felt like an hour ago. On average, he and Martha got ready for bed at around nine forty and were sleeping by ten. The farm chores started so early that he didn't have the time for late night shows or reading in bed. Yet here he was, fidgeting for no damn reason.

They say that it takes the average person approximately seven minutes to get to sleep as long as they have nothing major on their minds. Well, absolutely nothing but peaceful slumber was on his mind, and, still, he couldn't get to sleep. The one time that Jonathan Kent went to bed happy and ready to fall asleep, Mr. Sandman decided to play hard to get.

He adjusted the pillow again and rolled into another position, this time a little closer to the form of his sleeping wife.

"Go make yourself a warm glass of milk," came the sweet but tired voice, muffled by the pillow and slurred by exhaustion.

"Hmmm."

�not as asleep as I'd thought; maybe I can wake her up a little more�

He moved in closer, slipping his arm around her waist, and whispered in what he hoped was a seductive tone. "You know, hon, ever since Clark's decided to practically live in that hayloft-"

"He does live in that hayloft."

"-the house has been left all to ourselves."

A pause. "Jonathan."

�amused; good sign�

"It's not like he can hear us."

"Jonathan." There was warning in the tone now.

...maybe I can push it...

"I mean-"

"Kent." No pause this time.

�and definitely not amused; oops�

"Tired?"

"Good guess."

"I'll get that glass of milk now, huh?"

"Good idea."

"Yeah." He scooted out from under the covers and walked quietly to their bedroom door, shutting it even more quietly behind him.

�damned confusing woman wants romance and spontaneity but can't-�

His thoughts were cut off by the sight of his son, oblivious to Jon's presence, grabbing for a quilt out of the linen closet.

�a quilt? it has to be seventy-five degrees out; what would he nee-�

His thoughts were again cut off as Clark raced silently at his superspeed out of the hallway and into the kitchen.

�what the-�

Jonathan followed hastily behind, ready to query his son when he saw the boy, an anxious expression adorning his face. He grabbed a large glass of water and sped his way out of the kitchen.

On a normal, cold night, Jonathan might have thought nothing of this really, even though his son had never been one to get chilly easily. But on a night that was as warm as it was now? And the fretful expression?

Even though Jonathan could see nothing at all wrong with the benign articles his son had picked up, it was the more or less dubious use of his abilities that made Jonathan's interest perk. That and he'd seen his son's face.

�I can't seem to be able to get to sleep, so why not investigate?�

He abandoned the milk mission, and instead headed out to his son's new room. After Clark had been involved-

�hit�

in the car accident with Lex Luther, Jonathan and Martha had explained the truth about just how they had, well obtained him and where they had found him. Craters, weird looking spaceship type thing, the meteor shower� They had told him everything they knew, and Clark being Clark he proceeded to blame himself for the meteor shower, and the deaths and sundry mutations caused by it. He started spending more and more time in the barn, just staring at the stars and thinking. If it were for any other reason but his son's affirmed discrepancies between himself and the entire planet's population, Jon would have insisted that his son come back inside and start sleeping in his room at nights. But now, under the present circumstances he couldn't bring himself to do that. This was more than typical, narrow-minded teen angst. This was something that no one-

�on this planet at least�

-could understand, and if his solitary time in the barn ever left any emotional impressions, they were never visible to Jon, who had become an expert in judging his son's moods even through the more laborious teen years. Clark had always been an amazing young man, mature and wise beyond his years, but now he had to grow up faster than even before. Now he had to deal with having super-mortal strengths and anthropologically impossible abilities, powers that some humans would kill to have. He had to confront and subsist with those and be coupled with harsh and, no doubt, amaranthine truths: he had no idea from where he originated; had no way to fathom just why he was here or why he could do the things that only he could; probably worst of all, though, he had no clue as to how to descry the path towards his single and ostensibly unattainable goal: to know.

Jonathan wanted nothing more than to alleviate the pain, and bestow upon his son the things he knew he could offer: love, support, and trust. To make Clark feel beloved and cared for. To make sure it was obvious that he had somewhere to turn in times of worry and need. Most of all, to make sure he knew he had a place in their family and their hearts, to be certain he understood how deeply he was rooted to them, that he was part of them, even if he sometimes didn't feel like it. Nothing could take away a parent's love for their child, and Jon knew within his soul that if only Clark could grasp onto this, then the boy would at least have a stronger foundation to build his life on. He was, after all, everything in the world that truly mattered to Martha and Jonathan Kent. All that, in fact, had for the last seventeen years.

Of course, no matter how much he craved this inner peace for his son, he knew there were things he'd never be apt to hand over, along with things he would never be able to comprehend about Clark, places within the boy that he'd never be able to touch, and as a father, this cut him deeply, leaving too much wound to tend to with any accuracy. Now that Clark knew he was not human in origin, the boy understood his father's inaccessibility as well, as it could not be denied. The old adolescent truism about parental misunderstandings and space in between the generations were more accurate in his case, disregarding the age factor. His parents really couldn't understand all that he was going through, no one could.

No matter what though, he wouldn't for one instant regret telling his son the truth. At least Clark had a single immediate answer as to why he was so strong and so very different, even if it did offer up about a million others. He deserved to know the truth, deserved the opportunity to search for answers in what Jon and Martha hoped was the right direction.

And they knew he would. They just hoped that he would always keep them both in his life and in the know, let them be there for him, even if all they could give him was support in lieu of answers.

Just as Jonathan was opening the barn door, he heard a moan, a sound holding an infinite amount of agony in its resonance, and looked up at the hayloft in surprise.

Despite the fact that he was lacking the superspeed that Clark was capable of, he still felt accomplished in his haste to reach his son. Worried that Clark might be hurt or sick or anything other than in mint condition, he had bounded up the steps in record time only to find a Luther kid in peril, instead of a Kent one. His own was sitting next to the pale, quilt-clad form, tucking the ends under, and thereby effectively cocooning the body. Luther, currently defunct to the world, was looking despondent even in his sleeping state, his ashen face particularly doughy, a mask of pain and agony that Jonathan doubted had ever been revealed to another soul. The Luther's saw themselves as mortal Gods and Jon wondered if looking long enough at the youngest of these self-proclaimed deities would turn him to a pillar of salt. The punishment would seem to fit his disobedience of a basic Luther law: never choose to view one while cracked or damaged, defected from their consecrated righteousness.

For a moment, even though he knew better, Jonathan stepped away from himself at the site of another human being so forlorn looking, so tragically and obviously abandoned by his� "father" for lack of a better description of Lionel Luther. Feeling a pang of sympathy for the man, so young in his early twenties, was an event that he never would have counted on happening in this lifetime or any other, yet there it was. The boy looked so fragile and feverish, gone to this realm of the conscious, and this sickly Luther sent shock waves through the senior Kent. In his whole life he would have never guessed that a Luther could become like this. So human.

�he looks- broken�

Part of him wished that he could have seen Lionel like this, human and suffering, but that part was mercifully small. The father in him, however, was not, and he questioned just how Mr. Luther would react to Junior's predicament.

He looked to his own son's face and was not at all surprised to see it loudly and articulately declaring care towards his afflicted companion. There was such worry and confusion in that seventeen-year old face that he looked so much younger and yet so much more insightful than usual.

Still, Jonathan could not ignore the fact that, quite out of nowhere, there was a distressed person-

�Lex Luther, at that�

-in his son's hayloft bedroom. Why was he here instead of at Luther Manor, or better yet, a hospital? Why'd he come to Clark? And when? Or had Clark picked him up and brought him here? But-

He cut his thoughts off and decided to announce his presence. "I'm sure you can't even begin to guess all of the questions running through my head here, Clark."

The boy had jumped at the sound of a voice and turned back to see his father at the top of the stairs. He stood up to face him, standing in front of-

�is that a protective stance? is he protecting-�

Lex and the bed, sort of shielding the boy from his father's view. "I swear, I don't know why he's here, Dad." He began calmly enough, his unruffled exterior almost masking the slight tremble in his tone. "But he needed my help."

�that's my Clark; always the ever thoughtful mercenary�

Jonathan raised an eyebrow and gave his son a light smile, hoping to pacify and show him that there was no anger here. "You don't know what he's doing in the barn?" he joked. He and Martha refused to call it a bedroom aloud in hopes that the boy would eventually move back into the house.

His son gave him the customary, quirky half smile: saying sarcastically, without voice, "hilarious, dad." It also eased his father's own nerves. "No, I meant here at the farm."

Jonathan took a few steps towards the bed and Clark reluctantly moved back. He cocked his head curiously at Clark's protective reaction.

�what does he think I'm gonna do?�

"I wouldn't kick a dog when it's down, you know?"

Clark nodded a bit sheepishly. "Sorry, Dad."

"You said you don't know why he's at the farm?"

"Right."

"How'd he get up here."

"He was running-"

�he was what?�

"-and he, uh, well fainted. I picked him up and-" He gestured to the bed and Lex, confirming the rest of the story.

"Running? You mean, like exercising?"

Clark nodded. "I think so. He's wearing the right kind of clothes and he's got running shoes on."

Jonathan stood back, looking at the young man who was shivering slightly. "Body temperature's dropping. Good thing you got the quilt. Um, I'm not sure, but I think you have to keep his feet elevated." He watched as his son sped out of the barn, leaving him momentarily alone with Lex, then coming back just as quickly with two more pillows. He gently took off the running shoes and placed the pillows beneath Luther's feet.

�they're gonna be screaming in agony tomorrow�

"I doubt this is a regular route for him."

"I've never seen him running out here." Clark looked up at him, his brow creasing as his frown deepened. "Do you think he-"

"There's no way he could've have come from his mansion. That's a long run, Clark. Maybe not for you, but-" He cut himself off, sighing as he realized that he didn't need to look again at the face, the condition to know that Luther had indeed trekked from the mansion. "Depending on how fast he was running it could be something like a three hour run." He looked to his son.

�why would he come here�

Clark interrupted Jon's thoughts, shrewdly guessing their direction. "I don't know why, Dad. He seemed just as surprised as us at the fact that he was here."

"He was conscious? He talked to you?"

Clark shoved his hands in his pockets. "Uh, no. I saw his expression. You know, the telescope."

"Stargazing?"

Clark looked away. "Yeah."

�okay, missing something here�

Jonathan nodded despite his concern, not wanting to pry at this very moment. Maybe it wasn't a complete lie. Maybe his son looked away not baring to meet his father's eyes out of guilt. Guilt for thinking of another life, other possibilities, other� family. Where he could be if he had never been sent to Earth. If that's what happened, and it seemed pretty clear that it was.

�does he want that? another life? another family?�

His heart pounded with irrefutable certainty at this thought, though his mind knew that this was all just a fabrication of fear, a foster parent's tempestuous worry that his inadequacies outweighed his love and nurture. Still, his gut tightened at the thought of his son wishing he was somewhere other than here, other than the only life he'd ever known. Clark had to realize how much he and Martha loved him, he had to know.

�what if our love is fine and dandy, but the understanding is what he wants, what he needs right now more than anything�

Suddenly Jonathan Kent felt tired and ready for bed, a temporary escape from brand new and hard hitting questions. He dreaded the answers, knowing the truth might penetrate what little armor- more than forty years had melted it away into nothing- there was around his heart, expecting the piercing knowledge to finish him off.

�I'm too tired and too damn dramatic to deal with this now�

"We should probably get him home, Clark. Do you-" he paused, running his hand over his face. He didn't really want to hear the response, not wanting even more proof that his son and Lex maintained a camaraderie of sorts, "-know his phone number?"

Clark looked at the sleeping form in his bed as another moan pulled through the young Luther. "Yes."

�whatever happened to the good old days? when his best buddies in the world were Chloe and Pete, and nothing could fool Clark's Mafioso-radar?�

Jonathan nodded numbly. The Luthers were not people he had ever expected Clark to socialize with, and the fact that Clark knew Lex's number- his personal one, no doubt- was� Well, not a good sign.

"I can take him there, Dad. I know a shortcut-"

�of course he does; how wonderful�

"-that would get him there faster. With someone else it might take too long giving them directions and explaining how to get here. Anyone living there with him-"

"You mean his servants."

Clark's eyes darkened over a little and Jonathan immediately regretted his words. There was already the distance that had been placed between the two of them thanks to the truth about Clark's origin-

�or lack of knowledge about such�

-and now there was the problem of who Clark had chosen for company. They argued about it enough during mundane times, no need to do it now, when Lex seemed to be� in trouble and out of his element.

"I'm sorry, I know you're just trying to help him. Fine, it probably would go faster if you took him, but drive him over, okay? Taking him to Luther Manor any other way� Well, you know."

Clark nodded.

"Give me the number and I'll call his house and tell them what happened."

"Thanks."

Jonathan nodded, thinking that the Sandman would continue to elude him. Now he had too much to think about, as opposed to not enough. He figured the Sandman worked somewhere in between.

�bastard�

To be continued...