WIP: You Can Call Me Al (Part Eight)
May. 1st, 2005 05:18 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 R, 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
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight:
You Can Call Me Al
By Lenore
Part Eight
There was a psych class Clark took his third year in college, mostly because he needed to fill a requirement and it fit his Fridays-free schedule, but there was the title too, "Mass Hysteria, Collective Wish-Fulfillment and Other Oddities of Small Town Life." With a background like his, a class like that was hard to resist. One week they'd learned about a rural town in Sweden in the 1940s where even the most prominent citizens claimed to have seen a veritable fleet of comic-book-style rockets streaking across the sky. Another week, they'd heard about a community in Massachusetts where the entire township was convinced a statue in the town square, of local hero Horace Chilton, could help cure impotence if a man went at midnight and rubbed Horace's head with his left hand, three times, in a counter-clockwise motion. Most of the other kids sat through the lectures with a quizzical smile, a skeptical set to their shoulders as they scribbled the obligatory notes. Clark listened open-mouthed, with a strong sense of déjà vu. The course could just as easily have been titled "The History of Smallville."
It gives Clark something of a context, at least--this is what he tells himself anyway--for understanding his own personal group delusion, the moments when Al's memory problems seem almost contagious. Like when Al picks up the thrift store elephant and asks where they got it, and Clark tells him it was a wedding gift from his great aunt Elizabeth, something they've laughed about ever since. Or when Al asks about the first time they ever went to a Rockets game together, and Clark explains it was a big match-up against archrival St. Louis. They had to wait in line all day for tickets, and then the weather turned bad, and they sat in the stands under an umbrella for three hours, waiting for the officials to call the game. These stories--these lies--have an unlikely weight, a texture in Clark's mind, like actual memories. It would be so easy to do his own forgetting, and he's not sure what this says about him, although he knows it can't be anything good.
There are moments, though, when the charade falters, good conscience or good sense making a stand, and he has to wrestle away forbidding pictures of the future with its inevitable consequences. Al never seems to notice these occasional bouts of preoccupation. He's too contentedly absorbed in the details of domesticity, paint chips and refinished chairs and welcome mats, as if their ordinariness will protect him against the creeping dark of the unknown. Whenever they finish a project--new tile in the kitchen, recaning the dining room chairs, installing the new fireplace mantel--he makes a point to catch Clark's eye, always with the same expression, telling and asking at the same time, See? This is the way it should be. This is good. Right. And Clark smiles, nods. Believes. This is good, and it is right. It's the way he's always wanted it to be, without ever realizing it.
There's no failing to understand what this means, that a stranger can fill in the blurry outline of home when he could never do it himself. Maybe it shouldn't come as the surprise it does. But for all his sorrow, he never actually thought of himself as lonely.
They spend their days working inside, all the while Clark keeps a nervous eye on the vines, as anxious about them as he is eager to make Al happy.
At last, he can't neglect them any longer. "I've got to get back outside," he tells Al on their fourth evening together. "Just make a list of things you need done around the house. I'll take care of what I can in the evenings."
"I think we're finished for now," Al says, casting a critical eye around the place. "There are a few more things I'd like to get. Some furniture for upstairs, but we can do that later. So what time should I set my clock for?" Clark's look of confusion makes him frown. "That is what I do, isn't it? Work out in the vineyard?"
"Well," Clark says slowly, "we never really figured that out. I grew up on a farm, but you're...more a city person."
For a second, there's a faraway look in Al's eye, as if the mere mention of the word brings back a vague and wistful longing for the forgotten pleasures of his former life, his real life, clubs and gallery openings, the view from a high-rise apartment, luxury in all its shiny variety.
He lets out a little sigh. "If this is how we make our living, then I need to do my share. I'll have to learn sometime."
"I guess," Clark agrees hesitantly. The list of things he'll eventually have to answer for just keeps getting dangerously longer.
The next morning, Al is still yawning as they trudge out to the barn, a good hour before sunrise.
"Here." Clark hands him a cap with a Blue Cove Farm Co-op logo emblazoned on it, somewhat battered from the many times he himself has worn it.
Al takes it reluctantly, holding it by the tips of his fingers. "What's this for? It's all of fifty degrees out."
"It'll get hotter later on. You'll need some protection."
Al inspects the cap, makes a face at the sweat stain along the bill, sniffs cautiously at the inside, wrinkling his nose. "I'll pass, thanks. So what do you want me to do?"
Clark goes through a mental to-do list, assessing the priorities, "I need to do some discing today. If you want, you can take care of the spraying. Has to be done every couple of days as we get new growth to keep away the mold."
"Whatever," Al says, with a shrug.
He's more dubious when Clark outfits him with the sprayer, a metal tank that fits over the shoulder with a strap like a sling, the nozzle long and thin and sinister-looking, the way things that mete out destruction usually are.
"If this…whatever this chemical is…does chromosomal damage, I will be holding you responsible," Al informs him.
Clark shows him how to use the pump, angle the wand, and then points out what to look for, the delicate spring-green of new shoots. Al handles the spray gun rather awkwardly at first, as if it's an artifact from another planet, which in a sense it is. Farm life is an alien world, for sure, for someone who was only recently the crowned prince of Metropolis. Al learns quickly, though, moving deliberately down the rows, showing the determined spark Clark has come to expect from him.
Clark gets out the tractor and starts his discing, keeping one eye on Al as he works. They make it through the morning without anyone losing an eye or a finger, success as far as Clark is concerned. At noon, they go in to lunch. Clark puts together sandwiches, and Al pulls the pickles out of the refrigerator, finds the chips in the cabinet. In Clark's mental day planner, he's penciled in Al for a few hours out in the fields in the morning, and then the rest of the afternoon inside, enough exertion for one day. When he shares this suggestion, however, Al has other ideas.
"But you're going back outside," he argues.
"I need to finish the discing."
"Then I'm coming too," Al declares, his chin raised at a stubborn angle.
Clark tries to talk sense into him the whole way out to the fields, but he just picks up the sprayer and walks off, leaving Clark talking to himself. At least Al relents and puts on the cap, the sun now at an aggressive angle in the sky, glowering down on them. He plods up and down the rows, inspecting each vine with a relentless eye, wielding the fungicide with such vicious determination it's a little alarming.
When he finishes, he flags Clark down on the tractor and wants to know, "What should I do now?"
Clark hesitates. "Well…there's compost that needs to be shoveled into the spreader. But it's hard work."
Al glares at him hotly. "I'm not feeble."
Clark sighs and gets down, leads Al around the side of the shed, outfits him with gloves, shows him what to do and leaves him to it. Every time he wheels around on the tractor for the return trip up the rows, he expects to find Al gone, disappeared into the house, given up on the menial tedium. Every time, though, Al is still hard at work, his back a bowed line, cords standing out in his arms as he chucks shovel-load after shovel-load of compost into the wagon. Clark just shakes his head.
He knocks off early, a good two hours of daylight still left. He figures he can finish up the last few rows in the morning, and he knows Al needs a break, whether he's willing to admit it or not. He puts away the tractor and goes to get Al. He doesn't look up at Clark's approach or break his rhythm--scoop, toss, scoop toss--not even when Clark clears his throat, trying to get his attention.
"You don't have anything to prove here," Clark tells him.
Al glances up, and the charged light in his eyes begs to differ.
"Come on inside," Clark says in the same even tone police negotiators must use, hoping to avert a standoff, "and I'll start supper. I'm getting hungry."
It takes a few more moments for Al to relinquish the shovel. "But I'm going to finish this in the morning," he insists.
They go in and part ways, Clark heading off to the kitchen to survey their options for dinner and Al to the bedroom to get cleaned up. Clark washes up at the sink and sifts through the contents of the refrigerator. They went food shopping the day before, and he feels fairly stymied by the unfamiliar sense of bounty. He's used to having a few takeout containers of questionable leftovers and, if he's lucky, a bottle of ketchup. An actual array of foodstuffs just confuses him. He goes to ask Al: burgers or tacos?
The bedroom door is half open, so he doesn't knock, just barges on in. He finds Al lying face down on the bed, arms and legs in floppy disarray like a rag doll that's been carelessly tossed, his eyes closed, his mouth a thin, strained line.
Clark ventures up to the bed. A weak slant of light is coming in through the window, playing off the curve of Al's head, which Clark can now see has turned an angry shade of pink. "Why didn't you tell me you were sunburned?"
Al doesn't open his eyes, doesn't answer.
Clark sighs heavily. He wonders briefly if this what was his mother's life was like, a never-ending attempt to reason with a mulish husband. "I'll go get something to put on it."
He's at the door when a sheepish voice calls out, "Can you get something for this, too?"
Al holds up his hands, covered in blisters, already starting to bleed.
A tug of war breaks out in Clark, concern battling utter exasperation. "Why didn't you just stop?"
"You'd think I was useless," Al says indignantly.
Clark shakes his head all the way to the bathroom and back. He pulls the chair over to the bed. "Let's take care of that sunburn first."
Al takes the bottle of aloe gel out of his hand, but when he reaches up to dab some on his scalp, he grimaces and lets his arm drop.
"Sore?" Clark asks.
Al's too proud to admit it, of course, but the off-kilter way he's holding his shoulders says everything.
"Here." Clark takes the bottle back. "Let me do this." He starts to smooth the cool salve over the seared skin, and then it hits him how strangely intimate this is. He hesitates, fingers hovering in the air. "Um, is this okay?"
Al nods, his eyes closed once more. "Feels good."
Clark finishes and moves on to the blisters.
"Fuck!" Al hisses at the spritz of anti-bacterial spray.
Clark blows on it, the way his mother used to do when he was a little boy and still felt the sting of things.
Al stares down at his battered palms. "How can this be my life? I'm not good at any of these things."
"It was just your first day," Clark reminds him.
"Please don't patronize me," Al says tiredly.
Clark takes a breath and lets it out. "Okay. Here's the truth. You're not good at any of these things because this isn't your life."
Al's gaze snaps up to meet Clark's, and Clark almost tells him then, all of it, who he really is, the situation with his father, that Clark only wants to protect him. Maybe he can convince him to stay. Maybe, together, they can figure out what to do. Maybe…
"What I mean is that having a farm was really my dream," he says quickly, unable to break the inertia of lies. "And you got swept up in it."
Al frowns. "So what does that mean exactly? I'm just dead weight around here?" His eyes fasten on Clark like the answer really matters.
"Of course not," he assures him, "You're just more...indoorsy. Better at the business end of things." He smiles. "The brains of the operation."
"I'm good with money?" Al asks curiously.
"Definitely." Clark wraps Al's hands with gauze and fastens the bandages with white first-aid tape.
"So I…what? Keep the books and manage our finances?"
"Sure do." Clark doubts this will be much of a challenge for someone who used to run his own multinational corporation. "How bad does your back hurt?"
"On a scale of one to ten?" Al scrunches up his forehead, considering. "I'd say about forty-five."
"I told you not to kill yourself," he says with a sigh, even as he's getting up to go find the liniment.
He comes back with it, and Al takes exception to the cow prominently displayed on the label. "If I don't get better, are you going to take me to the vet?"
Clark rolls his eyes. "Very funny. I'll have you know my father swore by this stuff for sore muscles. Now take off your shirt and lie down on your stomach and be quiet so I can work."
He kneels on the bed beside Al, applying himself to the knotted shoulders, but the angle is awkward, so he swings his leg over to straddle Al's body. He learned how to give back rubs, strangely enough, from Lois, who insisted it was his responsibility as her writing partner to keep her neck from getting stiff. It was just easier sometimes to give into her dictatorial edicts than spend valuable time and energy trying to fight them.
Clark pushes the heel of his hand into the coiled muscles of Al's back. He lets out a little moan, and Clark freezes, afraid he hasn't kept his strength carefully enough in check.
But then Al makes an insistent "don't stop" noise, and Clark smiles. He presses his thumbs into tight shoulder blades, and Al lets out a happy sigh. The smell of the liniment is minty and familiar, and a comforting wave of home washes over Clark. Al's skin is warm beneath his hands, the curve of his spine elegant and strangely vulnerable, and it fills Clark with a protective tenderness for him. He presses more lightly, skimming his fingers along the knobs of his spine, over the lines of his muscles, his touch becoming less therapeutic, more of a caress.
The realization of what he's doing jars him, and he abruptly pulls away. Al's eyes snap open, seek out his face, linger there.
"You're done," Clark tells him, trying to smile, the skin around his mouth pulling too tightly.
"Thank you," Al is still watching him, "that feels a lot better."
Clark gives an awkward nod, starts to untangle their bodies, but Al flips over onto his back before he can manage it, and then that's so far beyond awkward he doesn't even know what the right word is for it.
"I'd offer to return the favor, but..." Al holds up his bandaged hands, smiling ruefully.
Clark just shakes his head. His mind isn't much on words, hands hovering at the khaki waist of Al's pants, eyes fastened on the pale skin of Al's chest, his dark-penny nipples, the lean planes of his stomach.
Al stares up at him, considering. "You're a very kind man," he says at last.
Clark falls into his gaze, half panicking, an unaccountable feeling of helpless, as if he is the vulnerable one here. His hands, seemingly of their own accord, drift from the safety of fabric to the risky territory of skin, thumbs moving in slow circles, without plan or pretense. Al smiles softly, and for a long moment, Clark is suspended in that in-between place, where there is no clear decision, desire pulling in one direction, conscience in another.
Maybe if Al looked away, it would break the spell, but he doesn't, his gaze unwavering, weighted with curiosity. Clark closes his eyes, bends his head and presses a kiss, very softly, to Al's belly. Just the lightest brush of his lips, really, but there's a quiet in the room that feels significant, reverent, the only sound he can make out the violent rush of his own breathing. He feels Al's muscles quiver beneath his lips, and then he wants more, kisses again, open-mouthed, tasting him, and begins to move slowly up his body.
Al is breathing heavily now as well, his chest rising and falling beneath Clark's mouth. Clark stretches over him, balancing on his hands and knees, as if keeping their bodies from touching is some kind of compromise with the disapproving voice inside him. He silently damns that part of himself and presses his face to Al's neck, kisses him there, and along his jaw. He lifts his head, looks into Al's face for permission, and finds inky dark eyes riveted on him, the curiosity so intense it's like something physical.
The first kiss is light, exploratory. Eyes closed, but he can still feel Al's gaze, watching him as they kiss. He kisses him again and then again, a little more intensely each time. Al makes a soft noise of contentment. His hands come up, fingers sink into Clark's hair, the gauzy touch of bandages against his scalp. He frames Al's face in his hands, and Al eagerly returns the kiss, the brush of lashes against Clark's cheek as he closes his eyes.
It's easy to get lost, and Clark forgets to be careful, cupping Al's head, remembering a second too late, when he feels sticky gel on his fingers, that he shouldn't do that. Al sucks in his breath and flinches away from his touch. Clark pulls away so abruptly the momentum carries him off the bed, and he stands there, hovering awkwardly. "Sorry."
Al shakes his head. He looks up at Clark with that same, surprising expression, his eyes asking questions, making promises, his body relaxed, inviting. Clark doesn't know where all this has suddenly come from. Maybe Al believes having sex with his husband will help him remember his life. Clark really doesn't know what he's thinking. Can't even begin to guess. Because all his knowledge of this man is a fraud.
"I, uh," he runs a hand through his hair, still breathing too hard, "I came to ask what you'd like for dinner. Hamburgers, okay?"
Al nods, the intensity still there in his eyes, making Clark feel as if he can see right through him.
He can't stay still beneath that penetrating gaze, restlessly swinging his arms, nervously taping his foot. "I'm going to go--" He points in the vague direction of somewhere else and hightails it out of there before he changes his mind, loses touch with his better nature altogether.
He moves mechanically around the kitchen, trying to imagine what Al must be thinking. It has to seem strange, that Clark would start like that, only to stop so abruptly.
A few minutes later, Al joins him, dressed in a clean change of clothes. Clark pulls out the cutting board, bends his head, as if cutting a tomato takes all his attention, fighting back a wave of self-consciousness, of regret, if he's being completely honest with himself. Al doesn't say anything, just goes to the cabinet, and takes out the plates, sets the table. The scent of burgers sizzles in the air, and Clark digs a spatula out of the drawer, turns them over. He warms up a can of baked beans, and they sit down to dinner. It's so quiet as they begin to eat that the ticking of the clock from the living room seems to rattle off the kitchen walls.
When Al does finally speak, it makes Clark jump. "Do they ever visit?" Clark must look confused, because Al adds, "Your parents, I mean."
Clark shakes his head. He's not expecting the hurt look in Al's eyes, but there's no mistaking it, and then he realizes how that must have sounded.
"They died," he tells Al, eyes on his plate, his throat suddenly tight. It never gets any easier saying that. "Car accident. About a year and a half ago." He takes a deep breath. "That's why I needed to move here. Why it happened so quickly. I just couldn't--" He shakes his head.
"And that's why it's been so hard for you to unpack," Al says, as if it all makes sense now.
Clark doesn't look at him, can't bear to see what's in his eyes. "I guess."
"I'm sorry," Al says softly.
Clark swallows hard. "Thanks."
"Why did I let you come out here without me?" Al sounds confused. "It doesn't seem like a good time for you to be alone."
Clark braves a glance at him. "Couldn't be helped."
"Can I ask--" He stops himself, despite the obvious urgency in his voice.
"It's okay," Clark tells him. "What do you want to know?"
"My parents?" There's a mixture of hope and dread in his face that's almost painful to see.
Clark tells him the truth, as gently as he can, "Your mother died when you were young."
"And my father? I gather that we're estranged."
Clark nods. "He's-- not a very good man."
"Do I have any brothers or sisters?"
Clark shakes his head.
"So I'm alone," Al says grimly.
"No," Clark says with quiet emphasis. "You're not."
Al gets that look on his face again, the one that turns Clark inside out. Before he can decide if it's guilt or anticipation he's feeling, the live current running between them is interrupted by a knock at the door.
Clark goes to answer it and finds the sheriff standing on the porch.
"Evenin' there, Mr. Pacino-Kent."
"Um, hey, Sheriff." Clark's heart beats like it's trying to thud right out of his chest. A grainy home movie unspools in his head, the sheriff unmasking his lies, taking Al away from him.
There's an empty moment, when Clark should be inviting the sheriff inside, but he's too paralyzed by dread to use the good manners his mother taught him.
At last the sheriff asks, "Mind if I come in?"
That snaps him back to reality, and he practically jumps away from the door. "Of course. Please."
The sheriff steps inside, takes off his hat, glances around. "The place is really starting to shape up, isn't it?"
"I hope so," he joins the sheriff in surveying the room, "we've been working hard on it." He clears his throat. "So, what can I do for you?"
Sheriff Nelson shakes his head. "Just paying a courtesy visit. Wanted to see how your mister is getting along."
"He's seems to be doing pretty well--"
Almost on cue, Al comes out of the kitchen. "Clark, who is it--" He stops when he sees the sheriff. "Oh. Hello."
The sheriff nods in greeting. "Mr. Pacino-Kent." His eyes narrow as he takes in Al's worse-for-wear condition, the stiff way he's walking, the bandages on his hands.
Clark can only imagine what he must be thinking.
He gets all flustered as he tries to explain, "We were doing some work outside, and Al had kind of a hard day of it."
Al frowns, confused by the tension in the room. He steps in and plays the host, "We were just about to have some dessert, Sheriff. Why don't you join us?"
The sheriff holds up a hand. "I didn't mean to interrupt your dinner. Just wanted to stop by and see if you're doing all right."
"Thank you," Al tells him, "Except for not being able to remember a thing, I'm doing fine."
The sheriff nods, watching him very closely for a moment, and then he appears to relax. "Well, I'm glad to hear it, Mr. Pacino-Kent. I really am."
"Sure you won't change your mind about dessert?" Al asks.
Clark is finally recovered enough to chime in, "Yes, Sheriff. Join us."
Sheriff Nelson shakes his head, with a little smile. "I appreciate it. I really do. But I'm supposed to be watching my cholesterol. Doc Hadley was right stern about it. And my Flora can tell if I've been within three feet of sweets just by looking at me." He puts his hat back on and nods. "You all have a nice evening now."
When he's gone, Al asks Clark, "What was that all about?"
He starts to brush it off with a shrug, but Al gives him a pointed look, and he sighs. "I think he wanted to make sure I'm not beating you." He touches the faded bruise on Al's cheek. "I didn't. Do this. Just so you know." He moves his thumb in a light circle, although the prudent voice in his head is fairly shrieking at him to keep his hands to himself.
Al meets his gaze. "I know." Clark's brows knit together and Al shrugs. "I don't know how. I just do."
They have their ice cream in the living room--Chunky Monkey for Clark, Cherry Garcia for Al--sitting side-by-side on the sofa. They seem to have run low on things to say, the clinking of their spoons on the bowls the only break in the quiet, and it unnerves Clark enough that he finally suggests, "Want to catch the game?"
Al nods, and Clark flips on the set. It's Mariners - As, bottom of the fourth, and Al curls into the corner of the sofa to watch, his feet resting against Clark's thigh, something Clark tries not to pay too much attention to.
Fortunately, the game does its job distracting them, a good pitching match-up that pulls them into the action.
"Why do they keep swinging at the slider?" Clark asks at one point, to no one in particular. "They know they're not going to hit it."
Al snorts in disgust at an unsuccessful sacrifice bunt in the seventh. "That's just giving away outs, even when they don't screw it up." It seems to startle him at first that he has such a strong opinion on the subject, but then he redoubles his scowl at the screen, standing by it.
For a while, it seems as if the game may go into extra innings, but then the Mariners break out against the A's bullpen, and it's quickly over after that. Clark switches off the TV, and Al gets to his feet, yawning.
Clark doesn't budge from the sofa, awkwardness creeping over him again as two thoughts get tangled up in his head, Al and bed.
Al puts his hands on his hips, regarding Clark almost impatiently, a pretty clear indication he expects Clark to join him.
Clark smiles nervously. "Insomnia, remember?"
Al doesn't react for a moment, eyes fastened on Clark, and then he moves closer, leaning over him, bracing his hand on the cushion behind Clark's head. Clark is expecting an argument of some sort, quite possibly a loud one, so he jumps at the press of Al's lips against his. By the time he adjusts to the surprise, his hand coming up to touch Al's jaw, Al is already pulling away.
"Goodnight," he says.
Clark doesn't take his eyes off him as he walks the short distance to the bedroom. Insomnia might have been an excuse, but it was no lie. He's not going to be able to sleep at all tonight.
Pairing: Clark/Lex
Rating: This part R, 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
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight:
You Can Call Me Al
By Lenore
Part Eight
There was a psych class Clark took his third year in college, mostly because he needed to fill a requirement and it fit his Fridays-free schedule, but there was the title too, "Mass Hysteria, Collective Wish-Fulfillment and Other Oddities of Small Town Life." With a background like his, a class like that was hard to resist. One week they'd learned about a rural town in Sweden in the 1940s where even the most prominent citizens claimed to have seen a veritable fleet of comic-book-style rockets streaking across the sky. Another week, they'd heard about a community in Massachusetts where the entire township was convinced a statue in the town square, of local hero Horace Chilton, could help cure impotence if a man went at midnight and rubbed Horace's head with his left hand, three times, in a counter-clockwise motion. Most of the other kids sat through the lectures with a quizzical smile, a skeptical set to their shoulders as they scribbled the obligatory notes. Clark listened open-mouthed, with a strong sense of déjà vu. The course could just as easily have been titled "The History of Smallville."
It gives Clark something of a context, at least--this is what he tells himself anyway--for understanding his own personal group delusion, the moments when Al's memory problems seem almost contagious. Like when Al picks up the thrift store elephant and asks where they got it, and Clark tells him it was a wedding gift from his great aunt Elizabeth, something they've laughed about ever since. Or when Al asks about the first time they ever went to a Rockets game together, and Clark explains it was a big match-up against archrival St. Louis. They had to wait in line all day for tickets, and then the weather turned bad, and they sat in the stands under an umbrella for three hours, waiting for the officials to call the game. These stories--these lies--have an unlikely weight, a texture in Clark's mind, like actual memories. It would be so easy to do his own forgetting, and he's not sure what this says about him, although he knows it can't be anything good.
There are moments, though, when the charade falters, good conscience or good sense making a stand, and he has to wrestle away forbidding pictures of the future with its inevitable consequences. Al never seems to notice these occasional bouts of preoccupation. He's too contentedly absorbed in the details of domesticity, paint chips and refinished chairs and welcome mats, as if their ordinariness will protect him against the creeping dark of the unknown. Whenever they finish a project--new tile in the kitchen, recaning the dining room chairs, installing the new fireplace mantel--he makes a point to catch Clark's eye, always with the same expression, telling and asking at the same time, See? This is the way it should be. This is good. Right. And Clark smiles, nods. Believes. This is good, and it is right. It's the way he's always wanted it to be, without ever realizing it.
There's no failing to understand what this means, that a stranger can fill in the blurry outline of home when he could never do it himself. Maybe it shouldn't come as the surprise it does. But for all his sorrow, he never actually thought of himself as lonely.
They spend their days working inside, all the while Clark keeps a nervous eye on the vines, as anxious about them as he is eager to make Al happy.
At last, he can't neglect them any longer. "I've got to get back outside," he tells Al on their fourth evening together. "Just make a list of things you need done around the house. I'll take care of what I can in the evenings."
"I think we're finished for now," Al says, casting a critical eye around the place. "There are a few more things I'd like to get. Some furniture for upstairs, but we can do that later. So what time should I set my clock for?" Clark's look of confusion makes him frown. "That is what I do, isn't it? Work out in the vineyard?"
"Well," Clark says slowly, "we never really figured that out. I grew up on a farm, but you're...more a city person."
For a second, there's a faraway look in Al's eye, as if the mere mention of the word brings back a vague and wistful longing for the forgotten pleasures of his former life, his real life, clubs and gallery openings, the view from a high-rise apartment, luxury in all its shiny variety.
He lets out a little sigh. "If this is how we make our living, then I need to do my share. I'll have to learn sometime."
"I guess," Clark agrees hesitantly. The list of things he'll eventually have to answer for just keeps getting dangerously longer.
The next morning, Al is still yawning as they trudge out to the barn, a good hour before sunrise.
"Here." Clark hands him a cap with a Blue Cove Farm Co-op logo emblazoned on it, somewhat battered from the many times he himself has worn it.
Al takes it reluctantly, holding it by the tips of his fingers. "What's this for? It's all of fifty degrees out."
"It'll get hotter later on. You'll need some protection."
Al inspects the cap, makes a face at the sweat stain along the bill, sniffs cautiously at the inside, wrinkling his nose. "I'll pass, thanks. So what do you want me to do?"
Clark goes through a mental to-do list, assessing the priorities, "I need to do some discing today. If you want, you can take care of the spraying. Has to be done every couple of days as we get new growth to keep away the mold."
"Whatever," Al says, with a shrug.
He's more dubious when Clark outfits him with the sprayer, a metal tank that fits over the shoulder with a strap like a sling, the nozzle long and thin and sinister-looking, the way things that mete out destruction usually are.
"If this…whatever this chemical is…does chromosomal damage, I will be holding you responsible," Al informs him.
Clark shows him how to use the pump, angle the wand, and then points out what to look for, the delicate spring-green of new shoots. Al handles the spray gun rather awkwardly at first, as if it's an artifact from another planet, which in a sense it is. Farm life is an alien world, for sure, for someone who was only recently the crowned prince of Metropolis. Al learns quickly, though, moving deliberately down the rows, showing the determined spark Clark has come to expect from him.
Clark gets out the tractor and starts his discing, keeping one eye on Al as he works. They make it through the morning without anyone losing an eye or a finger, success as far as Clark is concerned. At noon, they go in to lunch. Clark puts together sandwiches, and Al pulls the pickles out of the refrigerator, finds the chips in the cabinet. In Clark's mental day planner, he's penciled in Al for a few hours out in the fields in the morning, and then the rest of the afternoon inside, enough exertion for one day. When he shares this suggestion, however, Al has other ideas.
"But you're going back outside," he argues.
"I need to finish the discing."
"Then I'm coming too," Al declares, his chin raised at a stubborn angle.
Clark tries to talk sense into him the whole way out to the fields, but he just picks up the sprayer and walks off, leaving Clark talking to himself. At least Al relents and puts on the cap, the sun now at an aggressive angle in the sky, glowering down on them. He plods up and down the rows, inspecting each vine with a relentless eye, wielding the fungicide with such vicious determination it's a little alarming.
When he finishes, he flags Clark down on the tractor and wants to know, "What should I do now?"
Clark hesitates. "Well…there's compost that needs to be shoveled into the spreader. But it's hard work."
Al glares at him hotly. "I'm not feeble."
Clark sighs and gets down, leads Al around the side of the shed, outfits him with gloves, shows him what to do and leaves him to it. Every time he wheels around on the tractor for the return trip up the rows, he expects to find Al gone, disappeared into the house, given up on the menial tedium. Every time, though, Al is still hard at work, his back a bowed line, cords standing out in his arms as he chucks shovel-load after shovel-load of compost into the wagon. Clark just shakes his head.
He knocks off early, a good two hours of daylight still left. He figures he can finish up the last few rows in the morning, and he knows Al needs a break, whether he's willing to admit it or not. He puts away the tractor and goes to get Al. He doesn't look up at Clark's approach or break his rhythm--scoop, toss, scoop toss--not even when Clark clears his throat, trying to get his attention.
"You don't have anything to prove here," Clark tells him.
Al glances up, and the charged light in his eyes begs to differ.
"Come on inside," Clark says in the same even tone police negotiators must use, hoping to avert a standoff, "and I'll start supper. I'm getting hungry."
It takes a few more moments for Al to relinquish the shovel. "But I'm going to finish this in the morning," he insists.
They go in and part ways, Clark heading off to the kitchen to survey their options for dinner and Al to the bedroom to get cleaned up. Clark washes up at the sink and sifts through the contents of the refrigerator. They went food shopping the day before, and he feels fairly stymied by the unfamiliar sense of bounty. He's used to having a few takeout containers of questionable leftovers and, if he's lucky, a bottle of ketchup. An actual array of foodstuffs just confuses him. He goes to ask Al: burgers or tacos?
The bedroom door is half open, so he doesn't knock, just barges on in. He finds Al lying face down on the bed, arms and legs in floppy disarray like a rag doll that's been carelessly tossed, his eyes closed, his mouth a thin, strained line.
Clark ventures up to the bed. A weak slant of light is coming in through the window, playing off the curve of Al's head, which Clark can now see has turned an angry shade of pink. "Why didn't you tell me you were sunburned?"
Al doesn't open his eyes, doesn't answer.
Clark sighs heavily. He wonders briefly if this what was his mother's life was like, a never-ending attempt to reason with a mulish husband. "I'll go get something to put on it."
He's at the door when a sheepish voice calls out, "Can you get something for this, too?"
Al holds up his hands, covered in blisters, already starting to bleed.
A tug of war breaks out in Clark, concern battling utter exasperation. "Why didn't you just stop?"
"You'd think I was useless," Al says indignantly.
Clark shakes his head all the way to the bathroom and back. He pulls the chair over to the bed. "Let's take care of that sunburn first."
Al takes the bottle of aloe gel out of his hand, but when he reaches up to dab some on his scalp, he grimaces and lets his arm drop.
"Sore?" Clark asks.
Al's too proud to admit it, of course, but the off-kilter way he's holding his shoulders says everything.
"Here." Clark takes the bottle back. "Let me do this." He starts to smooth the cool salve over the seared skin, and then it hits him how strangely intimate this is. He hesitates, fingers hovering in the air. "Um, is this okay?"
Al nods, his eyes closed once more. "Feels good."
Clark finishes and moves on to the blisters.
"Fuck!" Al hisses at the spritz of anti-bacterial spray.
Clark blows on it, the way his mother used to do when he was a little boy and still felt the sting of things.
Al stares down at his battered palms. "How can this be my life? I'm not good at any of these things."
"It was just your first day," Clark reminds him.
"Please don't patronize me," Al says tiredly.
Clark takes a breath and lets it out. "Okay. Here's the truth. You're not good at any of these things because this isn't your life."
Al's gaze snaps up to meet Clark's, and Clark almost tells him then, all of it, who he really is, the situation with his father, that Clark only wants to protect him. Maybe he can convince him to stay. Maybe, together, they can figure out what to do. Maybe…
"What I mean is that having a farm was really my dream," he says quickly, unable to break the inertia of lies. "And you got swept up in it."
Al frowns. "So what does that mean exactly? I'm just dead weight around here?" His eyes fasten on Clark like the answer really matters.
"Of course not," he assures him, "You're just more...indoorsy. Better at the business end of things." He smiles. "The brains of the operation."
"I'm good with money?" Al asks curiously.
"Definitely." Clark wraps Al's hands with gauze and fastens the bandages with white first-aid tape.
"So I…what? Keep the books and manage our finances?"
"Sure do." Clark doubts this will be much of a challenge for someone who used to run his own multinational corporation. "How bad does your back hurt?"
"On a scale of one to ten?" Al scrunches up his forehead, considering. "I'd say about forty-five."
"I told you not to kill yourself," he says with a sigh, even as he's getting up to go find the liniment.
He comes back with it, and Al takes exception to the cow prominently displayed on the label. "If I don't get better, are you going to take me to the vet?"
Clark rolls his eyes. "Very funny. I'll have you know my father swore by this stuff for sore muscles. Now take off your shirt and lie down on your stomach and be quiet so I can work."
He kneels on the bed beside Al, applying himself to the knotted shoulders, but the angle is awkward, so he swings his leg over to straddle Al's body. He learned how to give back rubs, strangely enough, from Lois, who insisted it was his responsibility as her writing partner to keep her neck from getting stiff. It was just easier sometimes to give into her dictatorial edicts than spend valuable time and energy trying to fight them.
Clark pushes the heel of his hand into the coiled muscles of Al's back. He lets out a little moan, and Clark freezes, afraid he hasn't kept his strength carefully enough in check.
But then Al makes an insistent "don't stop" noise, and Clark smiles. He presses his thumbs into tight shoulder blades, and Al lets out a happy sigh. The smell of the liniment is minty and familiar, and a comforting wave of home washes over Clark. Al's skin is warm beneath his hands, the curve of his spine elegant and strangely vulnerable, and it fills Clark with a protective tenderness for him. He presses more lightly, skimming his fingers along the knobs of his spine, over the lines of his muscles, his touch becoming less therapeutic, more of a caress.
The realization of what he's doing jars him, and he abruptly pulls away. Al's eyes snap open, seek out his face, linger there.
"You're done," Clark tells him, trying to smile, the skin around his mouth pulling too tightly.
"Thank you," Al is still watching him, "that feels a lot better."
Clark gives an awkward nod, starts to untangle their bodies, but Al flips over onto his back before he can manage it, and then that's so far beyond awkward he doesn't even know what the right word is for it.
"I'd offer to return the favor, but..." Al holds up his bandaged hands, smiling ruefully.
Clark just shakes his head. His mind isn't much on words, hands hovering at the khaki waist of Al's pants, eyes fastened on the pale skin of Al's chest, his dark-penny nipples, the lean planes of his stomach.
Al stares up at him, considering. "You're a very kind man," he says at last.
Clark falls into his gaze, half panicking, an unaccountable feeling of helpless, as if he is the vulnerable one here. His hands, seemingly of their own accord, drift from the safety of fabric to the risky territory of skin, thumbs moving in slow circles, without plan or pretense. Al smiles softly, and for a long moment, Clark is suspended in that in-between place, where there is no clear decision, desire pulling in one direction, conscience in another.
Maybe if Al looked away, it would break the spell, but he doesn't, his gaze unwavering, weighted with curiosity. Clark closes his eyes, bends his head and presses a kiss, very softly, to Al's belly. Just the lightest brush of his lips, really, but there's a quiet in the room that feels significant, reverent, the only sound he can make out the violent rush of his own breathing. He feels Al's muscles quiver beneath his lips, and then he wants more, kisses again, open-mouthed, tasting him, and begins to move slowly up his body.
Al is breathing heavily now as well, his chest rising and falling beneath Clark's mouth. Clark stretches over him, balancing on his hands and knees, as if keeping their bodies from touching is some kind of compromise with the disapproving voice inside him. He silently damns that part of himself and presses his face to Al's neck, kisses him there, and along his jaw. He lifts his head, looks into Al's face for permission, and finds inky dark eyes riveted on him, the curiosity so intense it's like something physical.
The first kiss is light, exploratory. Eyes closed, but he can still feel Al's gaze, watching him as they kiss. He kisses him again and then again, a little more intensely each time. Al makes a soft noise of contentment. His hands come up, fingers sink into Clark's hair, the gauzy touch of bandages against his scalp. He frames Al's face in his hands, and Al eagerly returns the kiss, the brush of lashes against Clark's cheek as he closes his eyes.
It's easy to get lost, and Clark forgets to be careful, cupping Al's head, remembering a second too late, when he feels sticky gel on his fingers, that he shouldn't do that. Al sucks in his breath and flinches away from his touch. Clark pulls away so abruptly the momentum carries him off the bed, and he stands there, hovering awkwardly. "Sorry."
Al shakes his head. He looks up at Clark with that same, surprising expression, his eyes asking questions, making promises, his body relaxed, inviting. Clark doesn't know where all this has suddenly come from. Maybe Al believes having sex with his husband will help him remember his life. Clark really doesn't know what he's thinking. Can't even begin to guess. Because all his knowledge of this man is a fraud.
"I, uh," he runs a hand through his hair, still breathing too hard, "I came to ask what you'd like for dinner. Hamburgers, okay?"
Al nods, the intensity still there in his eyes, making Clark feel as if he can see right through him.
He can't stay still beneath that penetrating gaze, restlessly swinging his arms, nervously taping his foot. "I'm going to go--" He points in the vague direction of somewhere else and hightails it out of there before he changes his mind, loses touch with his better nature altogether.
He moves mechanically around the kitchen, trying to imagine what Al must be thinking. It has to seem strange, that Clark would start like that, only to stop so abruptly.
A few minutes later, Al joins him, dressed in a clean change of clothes. Clark pulls out the cutting board, bends his head, as if cutting a tomato takes all his attention, fighting back a wave of self-consciousness, of regret, if he's being completely honest with himself. Al doesn't say anything, just goes to the cabinet, and takes out the plates, sets the table. The scent of burgers sizzles in the air, and Clark digs a spatula out of the drawer, turns them over. He warms up a can of baked beans, and they sit down to dinner. It's so quiet as they begin to eat that the ticking of the clock from the living room seems to rattle off the kitchen walls.
When Al does finally speak, it makes Clark jump. "Do they ever visit?" Clark must look confused, because Al adds, "Your parents, I mean."
Clark shakes his head. He's not expecting the hurt look in Al's eyes, but there's no mistaking it, and then he realizes how that must have sounded.
"They died," he tells Al, eyes on his plate, his throat suddenly tight. It never gets any easier saying that. "Car accident. About a year and a half ago." He takes a deep breath. "That's why I needed to move here. Why it happened so quickly. I just couldn't--" He shakes his head.
"And that's why it's been so hard for you to unpack," Al says, as if it all makes sense now.
Clark doesn't look at him, can't bear to see what's in his eyes. "I guess."
"I'm sorry," Al says softly.
Clark swallows hard. "Thanks."
"Why did I let you come out here without me?" Al sounds confused. "It doesn't seem like a good time for you to be alone."
Clark braves a glance at him. "Couldn't be helped."
"Can I ask--" He stops himself, despite the obvious urgency in his voice.
"It's okay," Clark tells him. "What do you want to know?"
"My parents?" There's a mixture of hope and dread in his face that's almost painful to see.
Clark tells him the truth, as gently as he can, "Your mother died when you were young."
"And my father? I gather that we're estranged."
Clark nods. "He's-- not a very good man."
"Do I have any brothers or sisters?"
Clark shakes his head.
"So I'm alone," Al says grimly.
"No," Clark says with quiet emphasis. "You're not."
Al gets that look on his face again, the one that turns Clark inside out. Before he can decide if it's guilt or anticipation he's feeling, the live current running between them is interrupted by a knock at the door.
Clark goes to answer it and finds the sheriff standing on the porch.
"Evenin' there, Mr. Pacino-Kent."
"Um, hey, Sheriff." Clark's heart beats like it's trying to thud right out of his chest. A grainy home movie unspools in his head, the sheriff unmasking his lies, taking Al away from him.
There's an empty moment, when Clark should be inviting the sheriff inside, but he's too paralyzed by dread to use the good manners his mother taught him.
At last the sheriff asks, "Mind if I come in?"
That snaps him back to reality, and he practically jumps away from the door. "Of course. Please."
The sheriff steps inside, takes off his hat, glances around. "The place is really starting to shape up, isn't it?"
"I hope so," he joins the sheriff in surveying the room, "we've been working hard on it." He clears his throat. "So, what can I do for you?"
Sheriff Nelson shakes his head. "Just paying a courtesy visit. Wanted to see how your mister is getting along."
"He's seems to be doing pretty well--"
Almost on cue, Al comes out of the kitchen. "Clark, who is it--" He stops when he sees the sheriff. "Oh. Hello."
The sheriff nods in greeting. "Mr. Pacino-Kent." His eyes narrow as he takes in Al's worse-for-wear condition, the stiff way he's walking, the bandages on his hands.
Clark can only imagine what he must be thinking.
He gets all flustered as he tries to explain, "We were doing some work outside, and Al had kind of a hard day of it."
Al frowns, confused by the tension in the room. He steps in and plays the host, "We were just about to have some dessert, Sheriff. Why don't you join us?"
The sheriff holds up a hand. "I didn't mean to interrupt your dinner. Just wanted to stop by and see if you're doing all right."
"Thank you," Al tells him, "Except for not being able to remember a thing, I'm doing fine."
The sheriff nods, watching him very closely for a moment, and then he appears to relax. "Well, I'm glad to hear it, Mr. Pacino-Kent. I really am."
"Sure you won't change your mind about dessert?" Al asks.
Clark is finally recovered enough to chime in, "Yes, Sheriff. Join us."
Sheriff Nelson shakes his head, with a little smile. "I appreciate it. I really do. But I'm supposed to be watching my cholesterol. Doc Hadley was right stern about it. And my Flora can tell if I've been within three feet of sweets just by looking at me." He puts his hat back on and nods. "You all have a nice evening now."
When he's gone, Al asks Clark, "What was that all about?"
He starts to brush it off with a shrug, but Al gives him a pointed look, and he sighs. "I think he wanted to make sure I'm not beating you." He touches the faded bruise on Al's cheek. "I didn't. Do this. Just so you know." He moves his thumb in a light circle, although the prudent voice in his head is fairly shrieking at him to keep his hands to himself.
Al meets his gaze. "I know." Clark's brows knit together and Al shrugs. "I don't know how. I just do."
They have their ice cream in the living room--Chunky Monkey for Clark, Cherry Garcia for Al--sitting side-by-side on the sofa. They seem to have run low on things to say, the clinking of their spoons on the bowls the only break in the quiet, and it unnerves Clark enough that he finally suggests, "Want to catch the game?"
Al nods, and Clark flips on the set. It's Mariners - As, bottom of the fourth, and Al curls into the corner of the sofa to watch, his feet resting against Clark's thigh, something Clark tries not to pay too much attention to.
Fortunately, the game does its job distracting them, a good pitching match-up that pulls them into the action.
"Why do they keep swinging at the slider?" Clark asks at one point, to no one in particular. "They know they're not going to hit it."
Al snorts in disgust at an unsuccessful sacrifice bunt in the seventh. "That's just giving away outs, even when they don't screw it up." It seems to startle him at first that he has such a strong opinion on the subject, but then he redoubles his scowl at the screen, standing by it.
For a while, it seems as if the game may go into extra innings, but then the Mariners break out against the A's bullpen, and it's quickly over after that. Clark switches off the TV, and Al gets to his feet, yawning.
Clark doesn't budge from the sofa, awkwardness creeping over him again as two thoughts get tangled up in his head, Al and bed.
Al puts his hands on his hips, regarding Clark almost impatiently, a pretty clear indication he expects Clark to join him.
Clark smiles nervously. "Insomnia, remember?"
Al doesn't react for a moment, eyes fastened on Clark, and then he moves closer, leaning over him, bracing his hand on the cushion behind Clark's head. Clark is expecting an argument of some sort, quite possibly a loud one, so he jumps at the press of Al's lips against his. By the time he adjusts to the surprise, his hand coming up to touch Al's jaw, Al is already pulling away.
"Goodnight," he says.
Clark doesn't take his eyes off him as he walks the short distance to the bedroom. Insomnia might have been an excuse, but it was no lie. He's not going to be able to sleep at all tonight.