WIP: You Can Call Me Al (Part Two)
Mar. 14th, 2005 08:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
scribblinlenoreFirst, I feel like I need to offer a disclaimer about this story:
It's inspired by "Overboard." Oh, how I love that cheesy movie. But it's not going to follow that text all that closely, because there are two many important differences between Clark and Lex and those two characters, and anyway that would just be lazy storytelling. I know there are a lot of fans of the movie out there, and I don't want you be disappointed or feel like I'm luring you in with false advertising. *unlures*
I also want to thank all the people who volunteered to help me with beta reading. Particularly![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ariss_tenoh , whom I put through a false start. I want to be the person who has her story beta read before posting each section, nice and tidy. I want to be the person who cleans up the kitchen as she goes when she's cooking. But, alas, I am not. Thank you for your generosity, nonetheless!
***
Title: You Can Call Me Al
Pairing: Clark/Lex
Rating: This part G, eventually NC-17
Category: AU, Romance
Summary: Lex gets lost, and Clark claims him.
Links to Previous Parts:
Part One
Part Two:
You Can Call Me Al
By Lenore
Part Two
Clark's boots make a dull thud as he clambers aboard, leaving behind a dusty trail of prints on the polished deck. He feels a twinge of guilt for whoever is going to have to clean that up. Inside, he finds himself in a living room or whatever they call it on a ship. His knowledge of nautical parlance hasn't caught up to his circumstances yet.
Lionel Luthor stands at the bar, pouring himself a glass of orange juice. He takes a sip and gives Clark an appraising look over the rim of his glass. Clark is dressed in his typical uniform, a throwback to his high school days, jeans and a flannel shirt, not as clean as they were when he first put them on that morning. His dad always used to say, "Never apologize for not putting on airs, son." But there's still a part of Clark that wants to declare, "I used to wear a tie to work!" At the very least, he wishes he'd thought to change into a fresh T-shirt.
"You have references, I assume," Lionel Luthor says, without prelude.
Clark fights the urge to shuffle his feet. "I, uh-- Well, Mrs. Henderson was so happy when I fixed her kitchen sink she made me a meatloaf to take home. We could call her if you want."
He stops himself before he can add that she'll likely talk his ear off, an elderly lady living alone since her husband died, with grandchildren who hardly ever visit. He's already red-faced, even without the rambling.
Lionel Luthor regards him with a lofty look of sufferance. "I suppose your assurances that you do actually know what you're doing will have to suffice."
It's on the tip of Clark's tongue to say thank you, but he holds it back. The Luthors are the ones who should express some gratitude, or an acknowledgement at the very least, that someone was willing to drop everything and hurry right over. "So what did you need me to do?"
Lionel jerks his head toward an interior door. "It's through there." Clark follows him into what looks like a dressing area, with a bedroom beyond it. "This."
Clark stares. "It's a closet."
"Very astute," Lionel tells him dryly. "This closet, as you so accurately describe it, needs remodeling.
Clark has had other people call up with harebrained notions of what constitutes an urgent job, but emergency closet remodeling is definitely a new one.
"O-kay," he says, putting on his patient voice. He's learned from experience that people panic when confronted with the hard realities of renovation, the need to actually describe what they want, in terms more precise than "bigger" or "prettier." It's best to ask questions gently, he's found. "Can you tell me more about how you'd like it remodeled? Maybe you're looking for shelves? Or drawers? Clothing rods?"
Apparently, though, Lionel Luthor is the sort who thinks the handyman should figure it out for himself. "I suppose my son can give you direction if you must have it. He's the one whose garment storage needs aren't being met."
He turns abruptly, goes out another door. Clark isn't sure at first whether he's supposed to follow or wait, and then he has to scramble to catch up. They pass along a side deck, up a flight of stairs, through another door, and finally out onto the aft deck. Clark has only ever seen Lex Luthor from a distance, from the back of a crowded room at a LuthorCorp press briefing, on the other side of the velvet rope, always through the prism of professional detachment. Back then, the younger Luthor struck him as a hard-nosed corporate competitor, remote and a little imperious, all business.
It's hard to remember why he thought that now, with Lex Luthor lounging lazy-limbed on a deck chair, as if he has no intention of doing anything else anytime soon. His eyes are shaded with dark glasses, his skin glistening in the sun, and he's wearing the skimpiest black swimsuit Clark has ever seen. In fact, it seems overly ambitious even to call it a swimsuit, such a tiny triangle of fabric, rendering imagination utterly obsolete.
"Who's your friend, Dad?" Lex asks indolently, as if it's almost too much effort.
Lionel Luthor gives his son an exaggerated look of forbearance. "Your carpenter."
Lex raises an eyebrow. "Really? Well, I'm pleased to see you're finally taking my apparel crisis seriously. That excuse for a closet you've saddled me with has been a disaster since we left Miami." He has the bored tone of someone with nothing more important to worry about, a far cry from the driven, no-nonsense man Clark remembers. "I am curious, though. Why this sudden concern for my comfort?"
"Son," his father says reprovingly, "you know your well-being always concerns me."
"Of course. How could I forget? When you're always so quick to remind me." He smiles, a telling tightness at the corners of his mouth.
"Let's not waste the carpenter's valuable time, son. He needs to get to work. You'll show him what you want done." He addresses Clark, "You have exactly twelve hours. If you expect to be paid, you'll bring the job in on schedule." He walks away, not waiting for an answer, apparently not even expecting one.
"Hey!" Clark calls after him. "I don't know the extent of the work! That might not be possible." He looks helplessly at Lex.
A faint smile twists his lips. "I'm afraid my father rarely cares what's reasonable. Well, then," he gets up languidly, "let's get you started."
Lex brushes past him, and Clark almost trips over his own tangled feet as he starts to follow. The swimsuit might be brief in front, but it's nonexistent in back, mere lines of fabric, showing off Lex's long legs, well-muscled thighs, his… Clark can't stop staring.
Since his parents died, it's as if all the lights have been turned out inside him, a walking ghost town, so numb sometimes he can barely feel the tools in his hands as he works. This sudden return to awareness takes him by surprise, a shock to the system, too much, too quickly, his heart pounding in the back of his throat. He doesn't know why it happens now, the gauze of grief giving way at last, everything sharp again, registering with uncomfortable intensity. It couldn't have come at a more inopportune moment.
Inside, Lex leads him to the closet, sweeps out his arm dramatically. "I think you can see the problem."
"I can?"
Lex frowns, as if Clark is being purposefully dim. "The shoes."
Indeed, there are more shoeboxes than Clark has ever seen in his life stacked up along the far wall.
"You have too many?" he ventures uncertainly.
Lex shoots him an exasperated look. "They're not properly displayed. I can't tell you how inconvenient that is."
Clark takes a deep breath and marshals on, "So…a shoe rack? That's what you're looking for."
"I'd say more of a shoe management system."
Clark goes over the words in his head, and they still don't make any sense. Then again, it's hard to focus when Lex is so near and so under-dressed, and Clark feels more than half-alive for the first time in so long. "I'm not sure what you--"
Lex waves his hand. "I'm sure you'll come up with something."
He walks away, and, God help him, Clark is half tempted to use his x-ray vision to keep on watching, even after the door closes. He takes a deep breath. According to Pete, this was bound to happen. Okay, maybe not exactly this way, but in principle. One day Clark would just snap out of it and start to feel more like his old self again. Trouble is, Clark never really believed him, and he certainly didn't expect it to come so suddenly, with no real warning.
He does his best to push all that aside and focus on work, his savior of the past fourteen months, but he just stares blankly at the closet, trying not very successfully to visualize what a shoe management system might look like. There's a clock hanging on the wall, made of something white and opalescent and pretty, but it's soft ticking makes his hands clench into fists, reminding him how time is slipping through his fingers. At last, he pulls out a sheet of paper and a pencil from his toolbox and starts to sketch.
Once he gets going, he remembers that he really does know how to do this, the panic recedes, and the ideas start to flow. He hits on a design that might work if he's lucky, draws a detailed plan, and calculates how much wood he'll need.
He shows himself out. On the foredeck, he finds a servant dressed in a white uniform polishing the brass fittings.
Clark clears his throat. "Excuse me?"
The man turns and regards him with a severe expression. There's an uncomfortable stiffness to him that reminds Clark of clothes with too much starch.
He smiles, trying to be friendly. "Hi, there. I'm doing some work for Mr. Luthor. If he's looking for me, could you tell him I had to go pick up supplies?"
The man doesn't actually come out and say he doubts either Mr. Luthor will care where he's gone, but his skeptical silence is fairly expressive.
"Thanks," Clark says in a deadpan. "I appreciate it."
Still, he can breathe again, and there's nothing that rich people or their people can do to dampen that. He gets back in his truck and tools along Old Jim Jarwell Road, whistling. He really thought he'd made an effort to get to know his new home, but with every passing block, there's something he never noticed before, red petunias planted in long rows outside the elementary school, the flag above the Veteran's Hall snapping briskly in the wind, drawings taped to the insides of the windows at the Happy Hearts Daycare Center, bright and primary, filled with the exuberance of children.
At the lumberyard, he says a hearty hello to the owner, Bart Bilson, and asks, "What do you have that will take the sea air? I'm doing some emergency closet remodeling on a yacht down at the marina."
Bart laughs, and they swap war stories. It occurs to Clark that he comes into this store at least a couple times a week, and this is the first time he's stopped to have an actual conversation. Grief is a living fortress, and Clark has missed out on the little things, the everyday give and take. It comes as rather a profound relief just to talk about the weather.
He picks out what he needs, pays, and Bart helps him load his truck. Back at the yacht, he makes patterns for the pieces he'll need and starts to cut them out. The starched servant comes in every so often, ostensibly to bring him a sandwich or something to drink, but the real purpose is painfully obvious. He wonders what they're afraid he'll do. Maybe take off with some of the prized shoes. The thought of it makes him laugh out loud, and the servant gives him a sharp look.
Clark's levity fades. "I, uh-- I just thought of something funny," he explains feebly.
The man stands up even straighter and turns on his heel.
Clark loses himself in his work, the glide of the saw, rhythmic striking of the hammer. The day grows hotter, and he throws off his shirt, starts to whistle again. He fits the pieces together and stops to survey the results, squinting critically, running his hand over the seams. Maybe his shoe management system will actually work, after all.
He doesn't try to overhear what's happening on deck--his parents raised him right--but the windows are open and the breeze is blowing in toward shore. There's really no avoiding it.
Lionel's voice booms into the cabin, "It's good to see you amusing yourself, son. I suppose playing the spoiled dilettante does have a certain entertainment value."
"I have no idea what you mean, Dad. And would you mind moving? You're blocking the sun."
"Lex, Lex," he says, in a cajoling tone, "let's stop playing these games, shall we? Just give me that tape, and we can cut this trip short. Go ashore, fly back to Metropolis. Get back to business, with you in your rightful place as my second in command."
"It's getting boring repeating myself, Dad." His voice is flat, disinterested. "What's the plan anyway? Keep me on this yacht until I mysteriously develop knowledge that I just don't have? We're going to be here a while then."
Clark goes perfectly still, old instincts springing to life. He creeps over to the window and hides in the curtains to look out.
"Son, you have to watch this paranoid thinking of yours. You're hardly a prisoner here. This is a pleasant family vacation to help you recuperate after your recent," his smile is cold-blooded, "sabbatical from reality, shall we call it?" He leans over Lex's chair, strokes his son's cheek with possessive fingers, and it makes Clark cringe, as if he were the one being touched. "I only want what's best for you, and I'd hate to see you end up back in Belle Reve after all you went through before."
Lex's hand clenches on the arm of his chair, his knuckles turning white. "Belle Reve would be more likely to make me forget what you want to know than remember it, don't you think, Dad?"
Lionel straightens up, goes still, head tilted. Clark instinctively jumps back from the window, making the curtains move.
"Your handyman is eavesdropping."
Lex laughs. "Don't worry. I'm sure he's no more interested in this conversation than I am."
"Have it your way, son. I have some business to take care of on shore. Anthony and Ivan will be here."
"To keep an eye on me."
Lionel sighs heavily. "For your protection."
"Good luck finding whatever it is you're looking for." It sounds decidedly like a dare.
There are footsteps on deck, and Clark stumbles over the thick-piled rug as he hurries back to the closet. He grabs his hammer and puts on a show of being hard at work. His thoughts won't stay focused on what he's doing, though. Questions take shape, lines of investigation. He can do a search on the computer when he gets home, piece together the back story. While he's here, he should sweep the place with his x-ray vision, listen in on the servants' conversations.
A voice in his head stops him before he gets totally carried away, "Honey, we're worried you're pushing yourself too hard. Call us. We miss you." It's the last thing his mother ever said to him, a message she left on his answering machine that he never got the chance to return.
Clark takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, remembrance like a lead weight. He doesn't get involved in other people's problems anymore, he reminds himself. He builds shoe management systems. He goes back to work, bringing the hammer down with extra force, the noise ringing in the confined space. If he's lucky, maybe it will drown out those ghosts of the past.
It's inspired by "Overboard." Oh, how I love that cheesy movie. But it's not going to follow that text all that closely, because there are two many important differences between Clark and Lex and those two characters, and anyway that would just be lazy storytelling. I know there are a lot of fans of the movie out there, and I don't want you be disappointed or feel like I'm luring you in with false advertising. *unlures*
I also want to thank all the people who volunteered to help me with beta reading. Particularly
ariss_tenoh , whom I put through a false start. I want to be the person who has her story beta read before posting each section, nice and tidy. I want to be the person who cleans up the kitchen as she goes when she's cooking. But, alas, I am not. Thank you for your generosity, nonetheless! ***
Title: You Can Call Me Al
Pairing: Clark/Lex
Rating: This part G, eventually NC-17
Category: AU, Romance
Summary: Lex gets lost, and Clark claims him.
Links to Previous Parts:
Part One
Part Two:
You Can Call Me Al
By Lenore
Part Two
Clark's boots make a dull thud as he clambers aboard, leaving behind a dusty trail of prints on the polished deck. He feels a twinge of guilt for whoever is going to have to clean that up. Inside, he finds himself in a living room or whatever they call it on a ship. His knowledge of nautical parlance hasn't caught up to his circumstances yet.
Lionel Luthor stands at the bar, pouring himself a glass of orange juice. He takes a sip and gives Clark an appraising look over the rim of his glass. Clark is dressed in his typical uniform, a throwback to his high school days, jeans and a flannel shirt, not as clean as they were when he first put them on that morning. His dad always used to say, "Never apologize for not putting on airs, son." But there's still a part of Clark that wants to declare, "I used to wear a tie to work!" At the very least, he wishes he'd thought to change into a fresh T-shirt.
"You have references, I assume," Lionel Luthor says, without prelude.
Clark fights the urge to shuffle his feet. "I, uh-- Well, Mrs. Henderson was so happy when I fixed her kitchen sink she made me a meatloaf to take home. We could call her if you want."
He stops himself before he can add that she'll likely talk his ear off, an elderly lady living alone since her husband died, with grandchildren who hardly ever visit. He's already red-faced, even without the rambling.
Lionel Luthor regards him with a lofty look of sufferance. "I suppose your assurances that you do actually know what you're doing will have to suffice."
It's on the tip of Clark's tongue to say thank you, but he holds it back. The Luthors are the ones who should express some gratitude, or an acknowledgement at the very least, that someone was willing to drop everything and hurry right over. "So what did you need me to do?"
Lionel jerks his head toward an interior door. "It's through there." Clark follows him into what looks like a dressing area, with a bedroom beyond it. "This."
Clark stares. "It's a closet."
"Very astute," Lionel tells him dryly. "This closet, as you so accurately describe it, needs remodeling.
Clark has had other people call up with harebrained notions of what constitutes an urgent job, but emergency closet remodeling is definitely a new one.
"O-kay," he says, putting on his patient voice. He's learned from experience that people panic when confronted with the hard realities of renovation, the need to actually describe what they want, in terms more precise than "bigger" or "prettier." It's best to ask questions gently, he's found. "Can you tell me more about how you'd like it remodeled? Maybe you're looking for shelves? Or drawers? Clothing rods?"
Apparently, though, Lionel Luthor is the sort who thinks the handyman should figure it out for himself. "I suppose my son can give you direction if you must have it. He's the one whose garment storage needs aren't being met."
He turns abruptly, goes out another door. Clark isn't sure at first whether he's supposed to follow or wait, and then he has to scramble to catch up. They pass along a side deck, up a flight of stairs, through another door, and finally out onto the aft deck. Clark has only ever seen Lex Luthor from a distance, from the back of a crowded room at a LuthorCorp press briefing, on the other side of the velvet rope, always through the prism of professional detachment. Back then, the younger Luthor struck him as a hard-nosed corporate competitor, remote and a little imperious, all business.
It's hard to remember why he thought that now, with Lex Luthor lounging lazy-limbed on a deck chair, as if he has no intention of doing anything else anytime soon. His eyes are shaded with dark glasses, his skin glistening in the sun, and he's wearing the skimpiest black swimsuit Clark has ever seen. In fact, it seems overly ambitious even to call it a swimsuit, such a tiny triangle of fabric, rendering imagination utterly obsolete.
"Who's your friend, Dad?" Lex asks indolently, as if it's almost too much effort.
Lionel Luthor gives his son an exaggerated look of forbearance. "Your carpenter."
Lex raises an eyebrow. "Really? Well, I'm pleased to see you're finally taking my apparel crisis seriously. That excuse for a closet you've saddled me with has been a disaster since we left Miami." He has the bored tone of someone with nothing more important to worry about, a far cry from the driven, no-nonsense man Clark remembers. "I am curious, though. Why this sudden concern for my comfort?"
"Son," his father says reprovingly, "you know your well-being always concerns me."
"Of course. How could I forget? When you're always so quick to remind me." He smiles, a telling tightness at the corners of his mouth.
"Let's not waste the carpenter's valuable time, son. He needs to get to work. You'll show him what you want done." He addresses Clark, "You have exactly twelve hours. If you expect to be paid, you'll bring the job in on schedule." He walks away, not waiting for an answer, apparently not even expecting one.
"Hey!" Clark calls after him. "I don't know the extent of the work! That might not be possible." He looks helplessly at Lex.
A faint smile twists his lips. "I'm afraid my father rarely cares what's reasonable. Well, then," he gets up languidly, "let's get you started."
Lex brushes past him, and Clark almost trips over his own tangled feet as he starts to follow. The swimsuit might be brief in front, but it's nonexistent in back, mere lines of fabric, showing off Lex's long legs, well-muscled thighs, his… Clark can't stop staring.
Since his parents died, it's as if all the lights have been turned out inside him, a walking ghost town, so numb sometimes he can barely feel the tools in his hands as he works. This sudden return to awareness takes him by surprise, a shock to the system, too much, too quickly, his heart pounding in the back of his throat. He doesn't know why it happens now, the gauze of grief giving way at last, everything sharp again, registering with uncomfortable intensity. It couldn't have come at a more inopportune moment.
Inside, Lex leads him to the closet, sweeps out his arm dramatically. "I think you can see the problem."
"I can?"
Lex frowns, as if Clark is being purposefully dim. "The shoes."
Indeed, there are more shoeboxes than Clark has ever seen in his life stacked up along the far wall.
"You have too many?" he ventures uncertainly.
Lex shoots him an exasperated look. "They're not properly displayed. I can't tell you how inconvenient that is."
Clark takes a deep breath and marshals on, "So…a shoe rack? That's what you're looking for."
"I'd say more of a shoe management system."
Clark goes over the words in his head, and they still don't make any sense. Then again, it's hard to focus when Lex is so near and so under-dressed, and Clark feels more than half-alive for the first time in so long. "I'm not sure what you--"
Lex waves his hand. "I'm sure you'll come up with something."
He walks away, and, God help him, Clark is half tempted to use his x-ray vision to keep on watching, even after the door closes. He takes a deep breath. According to Pete, this was bound to happen. Okay, maybe not exactly this way, but in principle. One day Clark would just snap out of it and start to feel more like his old self again. Trouble is, Clark never really believed him, and he certainly didn't expect it to come so suddenly, with no real warning.
He does his best to push all that aside and focus on work, his savior of the past fourteen months, but he just stares blankly at the closet, trying not very successfully to visualize what a shoe management system might look like. There's a clock hanging on the wall, made of something white and opalescent and pretty, but it's soft ticking makes his hands clench into fists, reminding him how time is slipping through his fingers. At last, he pulls out a sheet of paper and a pencil from his toolbox and starts to sketch.
Once he gets going, he remembers that he really does know how to do this, the panic recedes, and the ideas start to flow. He hits on a design that might work if he's lucky, draws a detailed plan, and calculates how much wood he'll need.
He shows himself out. On the foredeck, he finds a servant dressed in a white uniform polishing the brass fittings.
Clark clears his throat. "Excuse me?"
The man turns and regards him with a severe expression. There's an uncomfortable stiffness to him that reminds Clark of clothes with too much starch.
He smiles, trying to be friendly. "Hi, there. I'm doing some work for Mr. Luthor. If he's looking for me, could you tell him I had to go pick up supplies?"
The man doesn't actually come out and say he doubts either Mr. Luthor will care where he's gone, but his skeptical silence is fairly expressive.
"Thanks," Clark says in a deadpan. "I appreciate it."
Still, he can breathe again, and there's nothing that rich people or their people can do to dampen that. He gets back in his truck and tools along Old Jim Jarwell Road, whistling. He really thought he'd made an effort to get to know his new home, but with every passing block, there's something he never noticed before, red petunias planted in long rows outside the elementary school, the flag above the Veteran's Hall snapping briskly in the wind, drawings taped to the insides of the windows at the Happy Hearts Daycare Center, bright and primary, filled with the exuberance of children.
At the lumberyard, he says a hearty hello to the owner, Bart Bilson, and asks, "What do you have that will take the sea air? I'm doing some emergency closet remodeling on a yacht down at the marina."
Bart laughs, and they swap war stories. It occurs to Clark that he comes into this store at least a couple times a week, and this is the first time he's stopped to have an actual conversation. Grief is a living fortress, and Clark has missed out on the little things, the everyday give and take. It comes as rather a profound relief just to talk about the weather.
He picks out what he needs, pays, and Bart helps him load his truck. Back at the yacht, he makes patterns for the pieces he'll need and starts to cut them out. The starched servant comes in every so often, ostensibly to bring him a sandwich or something to drink, but the real purpose is painfully obvious. He wonders what they're afraid he'll do. Maybe take off with some of the prized shoes. The thought of it makes him laugh out loud, and the servant gives him a sharp look.
Clark's levity fades. "I, uh-- I just thought of something funny," he explains feebly.
The man stands up even straighter and turns on his heel.
Clark loses himself in his work, the glide of the saw, rhythmic striking of the hammer. The day grows hotter, and he throws off his shirt, starts to whistle again. He fits the pieces together and stops to survey the results, squinting critically, running his hand over the seams. Maybe his shoe management system will actually work, after all.
He doesn't try to overhear what's happening on deck--his parents raised him right--but the windows are open and the breeze is blowing in toward shore. There's really no avoiding it.
Lionel's voice booms into the cabin, "It's good to see you amusing yourself, son. I suppose playing the spoiled dilettante does have a certain entertainment value."
"I have no idea what you mean, Dad. And would you mind moving? You're blocking the sun."
"Lex, Lex," he says, in a cajoling tone, "let's stop playing these games, shall we? Just give me that tape, and we can cut this trip short. Go ashore, fly back to Metropolis. Get back to business, with you in your rightful place as my second in command."
"It's getting boring repeating myself, Dad." His voice is flat, disinterested. "What's the plan anyway? Keep me on this yacht until I mysteriously develop knowledge that I just don't have? We're going to be here a while then."
Clark goes perfectly still, old instincts springing to life. He creeps over to the window and hides in the curtains to look out.
"Son, you have to watch this paranoid thinking of yours. You're hardly a prisoner here. This is a pleasant family vacation to help you recuperate after your recent," his smile is cold-blooded, "sabbatical from reality, shall we call it?" He leans over Lex's chair, strokes his son's cheek with possessive fingers, and it makes Clark cringe, as if he were the one being touched. "I only want what's best for you, and I'd hate to see you end up back in Belle Reve after all you went through before."
Lex's hand clenches on the arm of his chair, his knuckles turning white. "Belle Reve would be more likely to make me forget what you want to know than remember it, don't you think, Dad?"
Lionel straightens up, goes still, head tilted. Clark instinctively jumps back from the window, making the curtains move.
"Your handyman is eavesdropping."
Lex laughs. "Don't worry. I'm sure he's no more interested in this conversation than I am."
"Have it your way, son. I have some business to take care of on shore. Anthony and Ivan will be here."
"To keep an eye on me."
Lionel sighs heavily. "For your protection."
"Good luck finding whatever it is you're looking for." It sounds decidedly like a dare.
There are footsteps on deck, and Clark stumbles over the thick-piled rug as he hurries back to the closet. He grabs his hammer and puts on a show of being hard at work. His thoughts won't stay focused on what he's doing, though. Questions take shape, lines of investigation. He can do a search on the computer when he gets home, piece together the back story. While he's here, he should sweep the place with his x-ray vision, listen in on the servants' conversations.
A voice in his head stops him before he gets totally carried away, "Honey, we're worried you're pushing yourself too hard. Call us. We miss you." It's the last thing his mother ever said to him, a message she left on his answering machine that he never got the chance to return.
Clark takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, remembrance like a lead weight. He doesn't get involved in other people's problems anymore, he reminds himself. He builds shoe management systems. He goes back to work, bringing the hammer down with extra force, the noise ringing in the confined space. If he's lucky, maybe it will drown out those ghosts of the past.