WIP: You Can Call Me Al (Part 5)
Mar. 31st, 2005 05:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
scribblinlenoreTitle: You Can Call Me Al
Pairing: Clark/Lex
Rating: This part PG, eventually NC-17
Category: AU, Romance
Summary: Lex gets lost, and Clark claims him.
Links to Previous Parts:
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Note: The title will finally make sense!
Part Five:
You Can Call Me Al
By Lenore
Part Five
Clark wakes up to the preternaturally chipper voice of Ken Kinney--anchorman, reporter-at-large, general manager and co-owner of WBLC--doing the six a.m. news with even more gusto than usual, not the most pleasant way to greet the day, in Clark's opinion. He props himself up on one elbow and squints at the set to see what has the newsman all worked up. He has to close his eyes and open them again, extra wide, just to make sure it's really what he thinks it is, Lex Luthor looking much the worse for wear, dressed in oilskins, being pulled off a fishing boat.
"This was the scene just an hour ago," Ken Kinney says, unable to contain his excitement at the first real story Blue Cove has had since some teenagers discovered a nine-foot starfish while diving for oysters. "Fisherman aboard the Annabelle Claire got a little more than they bargained for when they reeled in the morning's catch. For more, let's go to Ben Kinney down on the docks."
Ken's twin brother, identical down to the comb-over and questionable taste in sport coats, is standing next to a sign that proudly proclaims "you catch 'em, we gut 'em," staring blankly ahead, microphone gripped in his hand like somebody might try to take it from him. When he finally realizes he's on air, he snaps to attention, his expression becoming almost comically serious.
"Well, Ken, it's been a morning of excitement down here at the Blue Cove Marina, after the crew of a Portuguese fishing trawler rescued a man, still unidentified, about three miles off shore."
"Is it true the man has no memory how he wound up at sea, Ben?"
Ben nods gravely. "That's right, Ken. According to Doc Hadley, the poor fella doesn't even know his own name."
Clark scrambles down to the end of the couch, closer to the television, so wide awake now every nerve feels jangled.
Ken nods to his producer. "Let's cue up that footage again, Christy. Give folks another look at our mystery man. Hopefully somebody out there will recognize him and come forward."
The scene plays once more, Lex being handed down from the boat, looking none too happy with the ham-fisted treatment of the fishermen, his face battered, some angry-looking scratches and a rather prominent bruise blooming on one cheek.
When he happens to glance down and notices his makeshift attire, a look of absolute horror crosses his face. "God help me."
They cut back to Ken in the studio. "Well, it appears he's a religious fella, if that helps jog anybody's memory out there. We've got a dedicated line all set up. If you recognize our John Doe, be sure and give us a call at the number on your screen."
Clark doesn't bother with the phone. He pulls on his boots and runs out the door. Doc Hadley's clinic is all the way on the other side of Old Jim Jarwell Road, and the 35 mph speed limit through town has never been more excruciating.
When he finally gets there, he finds what must be all of Blue Cove's police cruisers parked out front and clusters of curious onlookers milling around on the sidewalk. He leaves the truck on a side street and goes in the back way. He figures it's best to avoid the spotlight. He can just imagine the guilty picture he'd make in front of the camera, Ben Kinney asking him how he knows this John Doe, blushing memories of a thwarted blowjob zinging through Clark's head.
The clinic is a modest-sized building. Blue Cove is a one-doctor town, and probably lucky to have that. Emergency cases are taken by ambulance to Corvallis or by helicopter to Portland when it's really serious. Clark finds comfort in that. If Lex is still in Blue Cove, then he can't be in too bad shape.
Clark heads down the corridor toward the front desk and catches voices coming toward him, one of which he recognizes. There's just enough time to duck into a convenient supply closet before Sheriff Nelson, Doc Hadley and Lionel Luthor breeze past.
"The poor fella's pretty lucky, all things considered," he hears the sheriff say. "Who knows how long he was out in that water."
"But you say he has no memory?" Lionel asks.
Doc Hadley confirms it, "Shock of the water and trauma of the experience probably did it. Should clear up on its own. It'll just take some time. "
The doctor opens a door, and they all trail inside. Clark follows as quietly as he can, catching the door with his foot before it closes. He peers inside through a little sliver of an opening. There's an anteroom, and beyond that, an exam room with a large window, for patients who need observation. Clark sees Lex, sitting up in a hospital bed, wearing a blue gown, sheets pooled around his waist, picking at his breakfast tray, a sullen look on his face that is belied by his white-knuckled grip on the fork.
"What will happen if no one shows up to claim him?" Lionel asks in a tone so calculatingly disinterested it makes Clark want to throttle him.
"I don't rightly know," the sheriff glances over at Doc Hadley. "We can't just let him go off on his own, no idea who is and no way to take care of himself. The town's got a responsibility."
Doc Hadley gets a thoughtful look. "I suppose if worse comes to worse we can find a bed for him over at Sumter's nursing home. Not that it's really the place for him, but at least their staff could look after him until his memory comes back. Does this mean he's not your son, Mr. Luthor?"
Both the doctor and the sheriff have an expectant air that makes it's clear they have absolutely no idea who they're talking to. This is something Clark has noticed before about Blue Cove, that the people here have little to no interest in what happens back East, as if it's not even part of the same planet, much less the same country. They define "back East" pretty liberally, too. Kansas is as far off their radar as New York City.
Lionel shakes his head, and the sham heartsickness of the gesture is so convincing it's chilling. "Whoever that young man's family is, wherever they are, I hope they're reunited with him soon." His greeting card sentimentality hangs in the air the way a cloying scent might, and Clark feels more than a little nauseated by it.
"Well, I am sorry," Doc Hadley tells him. "I hope you find your son safe and sound."
Lionel nods gravely and shakes hands with both men.
The sheriff tells him, "We've got lots of curious folks outside. I'll walk you out, make sure you can get to your car."
Clark jumps away from the door and runs flat out back to the closet. He makes it inside not a second too soon, keeping the door open just a crack, watching as Lionel Luthor walks back down the long hall, feeling a rage that's piercing and personal. There is an absence in him, like a missing rib, left when his parents handed him over to the sterile embrace of a ship and the dark promise of space. Lex's face swims before his eyes, as lost and alone as that infant Clark once was on the other side of the universe. And Lionel has no excuse, no gift of life to justify abandoning his son. In fact, the whole situation begs the question: how did Lex end up in the water to begin with?
Once in the tenth grade, during some conversation, whatever fifteen year olds talk about, Clark can't remember anymore, Chloe said completely out of the blue, "Well, you know you're not much of a planner." Clark had gone hot with denial, reeling off examples where he'd been rife with forethought, until Chloe finally shrugged and threw him a mollifying "whatever." Now, he's a half-cocked testament to just how well she's always known him. Before he's even considered his options or spent a few seconds worrying over consequences, he throws open the door, hurries back down the hall and out the same way he came in, a runaway train on a mission.
By the time he jumps into his truck, a fuzzy to-do-list is taking shape in his head, piece by little piece, and he can only hope it will ultimately add up to a way to help Lex. He makes a stop at the Neptune's Daughters Thrift Shop and whirls through the place, making a mad grab for whatever men's clothes he can get his hands on, no time to stop and hold the stuff up and consider such niceties as size or style. In the back of his head is the fear that Lionel might change his mind, spirit Lex away for God-knows-what purpose, shadowy possibilities that are even more appalling than outright abandonment. He tosses a few stray knickknacks into his cart for some household window-dressing and heads to the checkout, startling the salesgirl with how eager he is to hand over his money.
At home, his momentum stalls a little as he looks around at the domestic wreckage he lives in and does the math and comes to the conclusion that there's no way to remedy six months' worth of paralysis in the fifteen or so minutes that he has. He tries to spruce up what he can and puts the clothes away, folding and hanging them with special care. As a finishing touch, he sets out his newly acquired thrift store bric-a-brac, the carnival glass candy dish and white porcelain elephant and matching tea towels with the sunflowers on them. His mental picture of married life, it occurs to him as he's arranging the items, is kind of like somebody's grandmother's.
That only leaves one thing, the hard thing that he's been putting off since he walked through the door, but he makes himself do it, go into the bedroom and open the bureau drawer. It's the one that used to stand in his parents' bedroom, tall and reassuring in its heft, handmade by his grandfather, with carved leaves that utterly fascinated him when he was a little boy. In the top left drawer, he keeps family artifacts he would never want to lose, that he can't bear to look at right now, smiling photographs and his parents' marriage license, diaries from when his mother was a teenager, his father's pocket watch handed down from his father and his father before him. And, what he's come to get, his parents' wedding rings in a black velvet pouch.
He gives himself a moment and then takes out his father's simple gold band and turns it over in his hand, the cool metal quickly warming in his palm. His dad used to say that when you lie you cheat everyone, including yourself. But then again, he also used to say that a man has a responsibility to defend those who can't defend themselves. Clark takes a shaky breath and slides the ring onto his finger. He likes--needs--to believe his father would approve of his intentions, if not his dubious methods.
He leaves in the same impatient whirlwind that he arrived. By the time he's driving past the Sip-and-Go, he's sketched out at least a rough outline of what he's going to say. He realizes that the biggest obstacle to actually getting away with this is...himself. It was always a point of contention between Lois and him, his skill, or lack thereof, at going undercover. "Smallville," she used to say, "you lie like I cook." Having once braved a plateful of Lois' French toast, he felt the full force of the insult.
The thing is, and he really hates to admit it, that Lois was right about him. No matter how much he ever psyches himself up, or how good the cause is, in the pressure of the moment his mouth just has the perverse habit of twisting itself into the truth. He thinks back on the multitude of unsolicited advice Lois was always giving him--"bastardize the facts, that's the most convincing way to lie" was one of her favorites--and he tries to channel her half-deranged chutzpah.
This time around at the clinic, he parks right out front and goes in through the main doors, putting a spark of desperation into his step, the scalded way a man might move if his better half had been plucked from the sea in a fishing net.
"Please," he says to the nurse behind the front desk. "Can you help me? I'm looking for my husband."
Her eyes go wide, instantly more alert. "Your husband, did you say? You mean the fella they brought in this morning?"
"Yes," Clark tells her, twisting his hands, showing off his ring, in what he hopes is a fairly convincing facsimile of worry. "That's him. Please, I need to see him."
The nurse nods in a reassuring way. "I'll let the doctor know you're here."
A scant moment later, both Doc Hadley and Sheriff Nelson come striding out to meet him.
"Is Al okay?" Clark says, the words jumbling together in a frantic rush. "How bad off is he? Can I see him?"
Doc Hadley holds up a hand. "Whoa there. Everything's going to be just fine. Let's calm down and get the facts straight, if we can."
The sheriff studies him over the tops of his glasses. "You're Pete Ross' friend, aren't you? The one from back East."
He extends his hand. "Clark Kent. I want to thank you, Sheriff, and you too, Doc Hadley, for looking out for my Al. I can't tell you how worried I was when I woke up and realized he was gone."
Sheriff Nelson looks confused. "I didn't realize you were married. Or--" He stops himself. "Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course."
Oregon voters might have passed the referendum allowing gay marriage, Clark understands from his reaction, but that doesn't mean they're ready to come face-to-face with the living proof of it. Don't judge people's biases, Smallville. Use them, he hears Lois saying in his head.
Clark smiles. "Al stayed behind to take care of things there. He just came out to join me a few days ago. And I've been promising him we'd go for a moonlight swim. You know," he leans in, his voice taking on a confidential tone, "to rekindle the romance a little."
The sheriff clears his throat and suddenly finds the steel toes of his boots utterly fascinating.
Clark breezes on, "Last night, though, I must have fallen asleep, and I guess Al went off on his own. I warned him about the currents, but would he listen?" He shakes his head. "I didn't even realize anything was wrong until I flipped on the TV this morning and saw him."
"Well." Doc Hadley claps his hands together. "Looks like we've got the answer to our mystery. Come on back, and you can see your husband. He's been a little restless, not too happy with the accommodations." He smiles wryly. "Our sheets have a thread count so low it's practically criminal, he's been telling us."
"He was right fussy about his water, too. Wouldn't drink it if it wasn't filtered. Your mister's kind of high maintenance, isn't he?" the sheriff says.
Clark smiles proudly. "That's my Al. He has his standards."
The doctor leads him down the hall to Lex's room, and Clark rushes inside and over to the bedside. The sheriff and doctor linger in the doorway, not wanting to intrude on a private moment. Or at least would be a private moment, if Clark had any actual connection to the man in the hospital bed.
Clark throws his arms around Lex. "Al! Thank God you're all right! I was so worried."
Lex fends him off with one hand and a look of alarm. "Who are you?"
Clark puts on his most stricken expression. "You really don't remember me?"
Lex frowns. "Am I supposed to?"
Clark turns to Doc Hadley and asks with a melodramatic stutter, "Is there brain damage?"
Lex makes a face. "Clearly. I'm just not the one who has it."
Doc Hadley chuckles, the way people do when married people bicker. "He has a slight concussion. A little rest, and he'll be good as new."
Lex presses his lips into a thin line. "That's confidential medical information you've just shared with a perfect stranger. I could sue, you realize."
The sheriff pipes up, "This is Clark Kent. He says he's your husband."
Lex pulls the sheet up to his shoulders. "I don't recognize him. How could he possibly be my husband? I don't even know that I would have a husband."
"Oh, I'm pretty sure--" The sheriff cuts short the observation in favor of a diplomatic cough.
Lex shoots him a dark look all the same.
Doc Hadley steps up to the bed. "In cases like this, it's not unusual that a patient can't recognize even close family members. Being in your own environment will be just the thing to help your memory kick back in."
Lex stares at him incredulously. "What are you saying? I'm just supposed to leave with this," he gives Clark the once-over, clearly unimpressed with his rumpled plaid and the morning cowlick he didn't have time to wrestle into submission, "person. What do you really know about him? What do any of us know? He could be some depraved serial killer. I could end up on television again and not just the local hick channel this time."
Sheriff Nelson tilts his head and studies Clark, "I don't know. He looks like a pretty decent fella to me."
Clark takes Lex's hand. "Now, Al. You may not remember me, but in your heart, you have to know I would never hurt you."
Lex snatches his hand away. "I don't know anything of the sort. I don't know you." He glares at Clark. "And stop calling me Al. That's not my name. It can't be. I don't feeling anything like an Al." He turns desperately to Doc Hadley. "What if he's some kind of pervert who has a thing for amnesia patients?"
Doc Hadley smiles gently. "I don't think there's much worry of that." His expression grows more serious, and he says to the sheriff, "He is right, though, Earl. We can't send him off with just anyone who claims him."
The sheriff nods. "We're going to need some kind of proof."
All eyes fasten on Clark. "Well..." An idea hits him, and he turns a little red as he blurts it out, "Al doesn't have any hair on his body, not even his--"
The sheriff raises an eyebrow, rather startled by the information. Lex scowls like he'd dearly love to kill someone and he can't decide which of them should be the first to go.
The doctor smiles with satisfaction. "Looks like we've got ourselves a reunion."
"I don't even know my name," Lex says plaintively.
"Remember? It's Al," Clark tells him patiently, speaking extra slowly.
Lex gives him a disgusted look. "My full name."
"Al--" He waves his hand in the air, trying to think of something, and unfortunately what comes out is, "Kent, of course. Al Kent."
Lex sneers. "So I changed my name when we got married? Am I the woman in our relationship?"
The sheriff makes a half-strangled noise of distress.
"Al Pacino-Kent," Clark amends himself. "We hyphenated.
Lex stares. "My family name is Pacino, and my parents named me Al?"
"They're-- fans," Clark offers lamely.
Lex folds his arms across his chest. "But apparently not very fond of children."
Clark looks to Doc Hadley, "Can he go home now?" He figures the fewer witnesses there are to his feeble powers of invention the better.
"I don't see any reason why not, but I'm going to give you a checklist of things to watch out for. If he starts having any symptoms, you be sure and bring him right back."
Lex says hotly, "I will not put on those garments--and I use that term loosely--that I had on when I came in. I refuse to smell like mackerel for rest of my life."
"We'll see what we can do," the doctor assures him. He presses the call button on the bed. "Myrna, can you find something for Mr. Pacino-Kent to wear home?"
Sheriff Nelson puts a hand on Clark's shoulder. "Let's go on out, and I'll sign over your husband's personal effects to you, not that there was much of it. But it's procedure."
Lex complains to Doc Hadley, "And could you please shut that blind while I'm getting dressed? I'd prefer not to be cheap entertainment for whoever just happens to stumble in here."
The sheriff shakes his head and laughs. "Your mister sure is a firecracker."
He leads Clark to Doc Hadley's office, makes him sign some forms and then hands him a see-through plastic bag with an expensive-looking pair of underwear in it, inconveniently monogrammed.
"Not to be nosy or nothin'," the sheriff squints at it, "but what's the 'LL' stand for?"
"Um--" Clark can feel a sheen of sweat break out on the back of his neck. "Well--" And then he smiles, remembering Lois' advice. "It's a little nickname I have for Al. You know, when we're--" He waves his hand in the air, a vague sort of innuendo.
It's enough to make the sheriff turn scarlet. "Oh, yes. I see."
Doc Hadley pokes his head in, and the sheriff seems pretty glad for the interruption. "Your husband is ready to go, Mr. Pacino-Kent, whenever you're finished up in here."
"Thanks," Clark tells him and asks the sheriff, "Is there anything else?"
The sheriff gives him an appraising look that lasts so long Clark is convinced his next words are going to be, "Did you really think you could get away with this?"
Instead, the sheriff surprises him, "You know, I don't take you for a man who would hit a loved one, but that bruise on your mister's cheek looks suspiciously like somebody's fist put it there. Now there's some lawmen that look the other way at things that, because what goes on between married people is their business. What you need to know about me is that I'm not one of those lawmen."
The look he gives Clark is so stern it's easy to imagine him using it on suspects, the confessions just tumbling out of them.
Clark holds the man's eye and assures him, "I didn't hit Al, and I wouldn't. Ever."
The sheriff studies him, taking his measure, and finally nods. "I believe that's true. Now, whether somebody else hit him or not is still a question. I'm going to keep my ears open, see if there's any talk going around about it. I'll be honest with you, Mr. Kent. I'm as old-fashioned as they come, and I don't necessarily understand some of these modern ideas like gay marriage. But I'm a strict law-and-order man, and there's not going to be any kind of bashing or such nonsense in my town. If I find out that's what happened to your husband, I'll get the people who did it, and I'll send them to jail. You have my word on that."
There's a forceful dignity behind the words that reminds Clark a little of his father, and it leaves a dull ache in his chest.
"Thank you," he says quietly.
The sheriff nods, solemn for a moment, then he breaks into a good-humored grin and claps Clark on the back. "Now you'd better go on out there and take you mister home before he has them redecorating the waiting room."
Pairing: Clark/Lex
Rating: This part PG, eventually NC-17
Category: AU, Romance
Summary: Lex gets lost, and Clark claims him.
Links to Previous Parts:
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Note: The title will finally make sense!
Part Five:
You Can Call Me Al
By Lenore
Part Five
Clark wakes up to the preternaturally chipper voice of Ken Kinney--anchorman, reporter-at-large, general manager and co-owner of WBLC--doing the six a.m. news with even more gusto than usual, not the most pleasant way to greet the day, in Clark's opinion. He props himself up on one elbow and squints at the set to see what has the newsman all worked up. He has to close his eyes and open them again, extra wide, just to make sure it's really what he thinks it is, Lex Luthor looking much the worse for wear, dressed in oilskins, being pulled off a fishing boat.
"This was the scene just an hour ago," Ken Kinney says, unable to contain his excitement at the first real story Blue Cove has had since some teenagers discovered a nine-foot starfish while diving for oysters. "Fisherman aboard the Annabelle Claire got a little more than they bargained for when they reeled in the morning's catch. For more, let's go to Ben Kinney down on the docks."
Ken's twin brother, identical down to the comb-over and questionable taste in sport coats, is standing next to a sign that proudly proclaims "you catch 'em, we gut 'em," staring blankly ahead, microphone gripped in his hand like somebody might try to take it from him. When he finally realizes he's on air, he snaps to attention, his expression becoming almost comically serious.
"Well, Ken, it's been a morning of excitement down here at the Blue Cove Marina, after the crew of a Portuguese fishing trawler rescued a man, still unidentified, about three miles off shore."
"Is it true the man has no memory how he wound up at sea, Ben?"
Ben nods gravely. "That's right, Ken. According to Doc Hadley, the poor fella doesn't even know his own name."
Clark scrambles down to the end of the couch, closer to the television, so wide awake now every nerve feels jangled.
Ken nods to his producer. "Let's cue up that footage again, Christy. Give folks another look at our mystery man. Hopefully somebody out there will recognize him and come forward."
The scene plays once more, Lex being handed down from the boat, looking none too happy with the ham-fisted treatment of the fishermen, his face battered, some angry-looking scratches and a rather prominent bruise blooming on one cheek.
When he happens to glance down and notices his makeshift attire, a look of absolute horror crosses his face. "God help me."
They cut back to Ken in the studio. "Well, it appears he's a religious fella, if that helps jog anybody's memory out there. We've got a dedicated line all set up. If you recognize our John Doe, be sure and give us a call at the number on your screen."
Clark doesn't bother with the phone. He pulls on his boots and runs out the door. Doc Hadley's clinic is all the way on the other side of Old Jim Jarwell Road, and the 35 mph speed limit through town has never been more excruciating.
When he finally gets there, he finds what must be all of Blue Cove's police cruisers parked out front and clusters of curious onlookers milling around on the sidewalk. He leaves the truck on a side street and goes in the back way. He figures it's best to avoid the spotlight. He can just imagine the guilty picture he'd make in front of the camera, Ben Kinney asking him how he knows this John Doe, blushing memories of a thwarted blowjob zinging through Clark's head.
The clinic is a modest-sized building. Blue Cove is a one-doctor town, and probably lucky to have that. Emergency cases are taken by ambulance to Corvallis or by helicopter to Portland when it's really serious. Clark finds comfort in that. If Lex is still in Blue Cove, then he can't be in too bad shape.
Clark heads down the corridor toward the front desk and catches voices coming toward him, one of which he recognizes. There's just enough time to duck into a convenient supply closet before Sheriff Nelson, Doc Hadley and Lionel Luthor breeze past.
"The poor fella's pretty lucky, all things considered," he hears the sheriff say. "Who knows how long he was out in that water."
"But you say he has no memory?" Lionel asks.
Doc Hadley confirms it, "Shock of the water and trauma of the experience probably did it. Should clear up on its own. It'll just take some time. "
The doctor opens a door, and they all trail inside. Clark follows as quietly as he can, catching the door with his foot before it closes. He peers inside through a little sliver of an opening. There's an anteroom, and beyond that, an exam room with a large window, for patients who need observation. Clark sees Lex, sitting up in a hospital bed, wearing a blue gown, sheets pooled around his waist, picking at his breakfast tray, a sullen look on his face that is belied by his white-knuckled grip on the fork.
"What will happen if no one shows up to claim him?" Lionel asks in a tone so calculatingly disinterested it makes Clark want to throttle him.
"I don't rightly know," the sheriff glances over at Doc Hadley. "We can't just let him go off on his own, no idea who is and no way to take care of himself. The town's got a responsibility."
Doc Hadley gets a thoughtful look. "I suppose if worse comes to worse we can find a bed for him over at Sumter's nursing home. Not that it's really the place for him, but at least their staff could look after him until his memory comes back. Does this mean he's not your son, Mr. Luthor?"
Both the doctor and the sheriff have an expectant air that makes it's clear they have absolutely no idea who they're talking to. This is something Clark has noticed before about Blue Cove, that the people here have little to no interest in what happens back East, as if it's not even part of the same planet, much less the same country. They define "back East" pretty liberally, too. Kansas is as far off their radar as New York City.
Lionel shakes his head, and the sham heartsickness of the gesture is so convincing it's chilling. "Whoever that young man's family is, wherever they are, I hope they're reunited with him soon." His greeting card sentimentality hangs in the air the way a cloying scent might, and Clark feels more than a little nauseated by it.
"Well, I am sorry," Doc Hadley tells him. "I hope you find your son safe and sound."
Lionel nods gravely and shakes hands with both men.
The sheriff tells him, "We've got lots of curious folks outside. I'll walk you out, make sure you can get to your car."
Clark jumps away from the door and runs flat out back to the closet. He makes it inside not a second too soon, keeping the door open just a crack, watching as Lionel Luthor walks back down the long hall, feeling a rage that's piercing and personal. There is an absence in him, like a missing rib, left when his parents handed him over to the sterile embrace of a ship and the dark promise of space. Lex's face swims before his eyes, as lost and alone as that infant Clark once was on the other side of the universe. And Lionel has no excuse, no gift of life to justify abandoning his son. In fact, the whole situation begs the question: how did Lex end up in the water to begin with?
Once in the tenth grade, during some conversation, whatever fifteen year olds talk about, Clark can't remember anymore, Chloe said completely out of the blue, "Well, you know you're not much of a planner." Clark had gone hot with denial, reeling off examples where he'd been rife with forethought, until Chloe finally shrugged and threw him a mollifying "whatever." Now, he's a half-cocked testament to just how well she's always known him. Before he's even considered his options or spent a few seconds worrying over consequences, he throws open the door, hurries back down the hall and out the same way he came in, a runaway train on a mission.
By the time he jumps into his truck, a fuzzy to-do-list is taking shape in his head, piece by little piece, and he can only hope it will ultimately add up to a way to help Lex. He makes a stop at the Neptune's Daughters Thrift Shop and whirls through the place, making a mad grab for whatever men's clothes he can get his hands on, no time to stop and hold the stuff up and consider such niceties as size or style. In the back of his head is the fear that Lionel might change his mind, spirit Lex away for God-knows-what purpose, shadowy possibilities that are even more appalling than outright abandonment. He tosses a few stray knickknacks into his cart for some household window-dressing and heads to the checkout, startling the salesgirl with how eager he is to hand over his money.
At home, his momentum stalls a little as he looks around at the domestic wreckage he lives in and does the math and comes to the conclusion that there's no way to remedy six months' worth of paralysis in the fifteen or so minutes that he has. He tries to spruce up what he can and puts the clothes away, folding and hanging them with special care. As a finishing touch, he sets out his newly acquired thrift store bric-a-brac, the carnival glass candy dish and white porcelain elephant and matching tea towels with the sunflowers on them. His mental picture of married life, it occurs to him as he's arranging the items, is kind of like somebody's grandmother's.
That only leaves one thing, the hard thing that he's been putting off since he walked through the door, but he makes himself do it, go into the bedroom and open the bureau drawer. It's the one that used to stand in his parents' bedroom, tall and reassuring in its heft, handmade by his grandfather, with carved leaves that utterly fascinated him when he was a little boy. In the top left drawer, he keeps family artifacts he would never want to lose, that he can't bear to look at right now, smiling photographs and his parents' marriage license, diaries from when his mother was a teenager, his father's pocket watch handed down from his father and his father before him. And, what he's come to get, his parents' wedding rings in a black velvet pouch.
He gives himself a moment and then takes out his father's simple gold band and turns it over in his hand, the cool metal quickly warming in his palm. His dad used to say that when you lie you cheat everyone, including yourself. But then again, he also used to say that a man has a responsibility to defend those who can't defend themselves. Clark takes a shaky breath and slides the ring onto his finger. He likes--needs--to believe his father would approve of his intentions, if not his dubious methods.
He leaves in the same impatient whirlwind that he arrived. By the time he's driving past the Sip-and-Go, he's sketched out at least a rough outline of what he's going to say. He realizes that the biggest obstacle to actually getting away with this is...himself. It was always a point of contention between Lois and him, his skill, or lack thereof, at going undercover. "Smallville," she used to say, "you lie like I cook." Having once braved a plateful of Lois' French toast, he felt the full force of the insult.
The thing is, and he really hates to admit it, that Lois was right about him. No matter how much he ever psyches himself up, or how good the cause is, in the pressure of the moment his mouth just has the perverse habit of twisting itself into the truth. He thinks back on the multitude of unsolicited advice Lois was always giving him--"bastardize the facts, that's the most convincing way to lie" was one of her favorites--and he tries to channel her half-deranged chutzpah.
This time around at the clinic, he parks right out front and goes in through the main doors, putting a spark of desperation into his step, the scalded way a man might move if his better half had been plucked from the sea in a fishing net.
"Please," he says to the nurse behind the front desk. "Can you help me? I'm looking for my husband."
Her eyes go wide, instantly more alert. "Your husband, did you say? You mean the fella they brought in this morning?"
"Yes," Clark tells her, twisting his hands, showing off his ring, in what he hopes is a fairly convincing facsimile of worry. "That's him. Please, I need to see him."
The nurse nods in a reassuring way. "I'll let the doctor know you're here."
A scant moment later, both Doc Hadley and Sheriff Nelson come striding out to meet him.
"Is Al okay?" Clark says, the words jumbling together in a frantic rush. "How bad off is he? Can I see him?"
Doc Hadley holds up a hand. "Whoa there. Everything's going to be just fine. Let's calm down and get the facts straight, if we can."
The sheriff studies him over the tops of his glasses. "You're Pete Ross' friend, aren't you? The one from back East."
He extends his hand. "Clark Kent. I want to thank you, Sheriff, and you too, Doc Hadley, for looking out for my Al. I can't tell you how worried I was when I woke up and realized he was gone."
Sheriff Nelson looks confused. "I didn't realize you were married. Or--" He stops himself. "Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course."
Oregon voters might have passed the referendum allowing gay marriage, Clark understands from his reaction, but that doesn't mean they're ready to come face-to-face with the living proof of it. Don't judge people's biases, Smallville. Use them, he hears Lois saying in his head.
Clark smiles. "Al stayed behind to take care of things there. He just came out to join me a few days ago. And I've been promising him we'd go for a moonlight swim. You know," he leans in, his voice taking on a confidential tone, "to rekindle the romance a little."
The sheriff clears his throat and suddenly finds the steel toes of his boots utterly fascinating.
Clark breezes on, "Last night, though, I must have fallen asleep, and I guess Al went off on his own. I warned him about the currents, but would he listen?" He shakes his head. "I didn't even realize anything was wrong until I flipped on the TV this morning and saw him."
"Well." Doc Hadley claps his hands together. "Looks like we've got the answer to our mystery. Come on back, and you can see your husband. He's been a little restless, not too happy with the accommodations." He smiles wryly. "Our sheets have a thread count so low it's practically criminal, he's been telling us."
"He was right fussy about his water, too. Wouldn't drink it if it wasn't filtered. Your mister's kind of high maintenance, isn't he?" the sheriff says.
Clark smiles proudly. "That's my Al. He has his standards."
The doctor leads him down the hall to Lex's room, and Clark rushes inside and over to the bedside. The sheriff and doctor linger in the doorway, not wanting to intrude on a private moment. Or at least would be a private moment, if Clark had any actual connection to the man in the hospital bed.
Clark throws his arms around Lex. "Al! Thank God you're all right! I was so worried."
Lex fends him off with one hand and a look of alarm. "Who are you?"
Clark puts on his most stricken expression. "You really don't remember me?"
Lex frowns. "Am I supposed to?"
Clark turns to Doc Hadley and asks with a melodramatic stutter, "Is there brain damage?"
Lex makes a face. "Clearly. I'm just not the one who has it."
Doc Hadley chuckles, the way people do when married people bicker. "He has a slight concussion. A little rest, and he'll be good as new."
Lex presses his lips into a thin line. "That's confidential medical information you've just shared with a perfect stranger. I could sue, you realize."
The sheriff pipes up, "This is Clark Kent. He says he's your husband."
Lex pulls the sheet up to his shoulders. "I don't recognize him. How could he possibly be my husband? I don't even know that I would have a husband."
"Oh, I'm pretty sure--" The sheriff cuts short the observation in favor of a diplomatic cough.
Lex shoots him a dark look all the same.
Doc Hadley steps up to the bed. "In cases like this, it's not unusual that a patient can't recognize even close family members. Being in your own environment will be just the thing to help your memory kick back in."
Lex stares at him incredulously. "What are you saying? I'm just supposed to leave with this," he gives Clark the once-over, clearly unimpressed with his rumpled plaid and the morning cowlick he didn't have time to wrestle into submission, "person. What do you really know about him? What do any of us know? He could be some depraved serial killer. I could end up on television again and not just the local hick channel this time."
Sheriff Nelson tilts his head and studies Clark, "I don't know. He looks like a pretty decent fella to me."
Clark takes Lex's hand. "Now, Al. You may not remember me, but in your heart, you have to know I would never hurt you."
Lex snatches his hand away. "I don't know anything of the sort. I don't know you." He glares at Clark. "And stop calling me Al. That's not my name. It can't be. I don't feeling anything like an Al." He turns desperately to Doc Hadley. "What if he's some kind of pervert who has a thing for amnesia patients?"
Doc Hadley smiles gently. "I don't think there's much worry of that." His expression grows more serious, and he says to the sheriff, "He is right, though, Earl. We can't send him off with just anyone who claims him."
The sheriff nods. "We're going to need some kind of proof."
All eyes fasten on Clark. "Well..." An idea hits him, and he turns a little red as he blurts it out, "Al doesn't have any hair on his body, not even his--"
The sheriff raises an eyebrow, rather startled by the information. Lex scowls like he'd dearly love to kill someone and he can't decide which of them should be the first to go.
The doctor smiles with satisfaction. "Looks like we've got ourselves a reunion."
"I don't even know my name," Lex says plaintively.
"Remember? It's Al," Clark tells him patiently, speaking extra slowly.
Lex gives him a disgusted look. "My full name."
"Al--" He waves his hand in the air, trying to think of something, and unfortunately what comes out is, "Kent, of course. Al Kent."
Lex sneers. "So I changed my name when we got married? Am I the woman in our relationship?"
The sheriff makes a half-strangled noise of distress.
"Al Pacino-Kent," Clark amends himself. "We hyphenated.
Lex stares. "My family name is Pacino, and my parents named me Al?"
"They're-- fans," Clark offers lamely.
Lex folds his arms across his chest. "But apparently not very fond of children."
Clark looks to Doc Hadley, "Can he go home now?" He figures the fewer witnesses there are to his feeble powers of invention the better.
"I don't see any reason why not, but I'm going to give you a checklist of things to watch out for. If he starts having any symptoms, you be sure and bring him right back."
Lex says hotly, "I will not put on those garments--and I use that term loosely--that I had on when I came in. I refuse to smell like mackerel for rest of my life."
"We'll see what we can do," the doctor assures him. He presses the call button on the bed. "Myrna, can you find something for Mr. Pacino-Kent to wear home?"
Sheriff Nelson puts a hand on Clark's shoulder. "Let's go on out, and I'll sign over your husband's personal effects to you, not that there was much of it. But it's procedure."
Lex complains to Doc Hadley, "And could you please shut that blind while I'm getting dressed? I'd prefer not to be cheap entertainment for whoever just happens to stumble in here."
The sheriff shakes his head and laughs. "Your mister sure is a firecracker."
He leads Clark to Doc Hadley's office, makes him sign some forms and then hands him a see-through plastic bag with an expensive-looking pair of underwear in it, inconveniently monogrammed.
"Not to be nosy or nothin'," the sheriff squints at it, "but what's the 'LL' stand for?"
"Um--" Clark can feel a sheen of sweat break out on the back of his neck. "Well--" And then he smiles, remembering Lois' advice. "It's a little nickname I have for Al. You know, when we're--" He waves his hand in the air, a vague sort of innuendo.
It's enough to make the sheriff turn scarlet. "Oh, yes. I see."
Doc Hadley pokes his head in, and the sheriff seems pretty glad for the interruption. "Your husband is ready to go, Mr. Pacino-Kent, whenever you're finished up in here."
"Thanks," Clark tells him and asks the sheriff, "Is there anything else?"
The sheriff gives him an appraising look that lasts so long Clark is convinced his next words are going to be, "Did you really think you could get away with this?"
Instead, the sheriff surprises him, "You know, I don't take you for a man who would hit a loved one, but that bruise on your mister's cheek looks suspiciously like somebody's fist put it there. Now there's some lawmen that look the other way at things that, because what goes on between married people is their business. What you need to know about me is that I'm not one of those lawmen."
The look he gives Clark is so stern it's easy to imagine him using it on suspects, the confessions just tumbling out of them.
Clark holds the man's eye and assures him, "I didn't hit Al, and I wouldn't. Ever."
The sheriff studies him, taking his measure, and finally nods. "I believe that's true. Now, whether somebody else hit him or not is still a question. I'm going to keep my ears open, see if there's any talk going around about it. I'll be honest with you, Mr. Kent. I'm as old-fashioned as they come, and I don't necessarily understand some of these modern ideas like gay marriage. But I'm a strict law-and-order man, and there's not going to be any kind of bashing or such nonsense in my town. If I find out that's what happened to your husband, I'll get the people who did it, and I'll send them to jail. You have my word on that."
There's a forceful dignity behind the words that reminds Clark a little of his father, and it leaves a dull ache in his chest.
"Thank you," he says quietly.
The sheriff nods, solemn for a moment, then he breaks into a good-humored grin and claps Clark on the back. "Now you'd better go on out there and take you mister home before he has them redecorating the waiting room."