scribblinlenore | WIP: You Can Call Me Al (Part Nine)

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

Part Nine:

You Can Call Me Al
by Lenore

Part Nine

Sometimes, Clark wonders if people on his planet used money at all, or if perhaps they had some other economic arrangement, more abstract, or possibly more direct, a barter system maybe. There has to be a reason--something in his genes rather than his experience, because his adopted parents certainly knew how to juggle their finances--why he's so hapless when it comes to cash.

Back in his days at the Planet, Lois used to roll her eyes at the steadily growing mountain of crumpled up cash register tapes and coffee-stained rental car agreements on his desk until she finally couldn't take it anymore. "Good God, Smallville, when was the last time you did your expenses? The Ice Age? Hand it over," she would say testily. Half an hour later he'd have a stack of completed forms, pages of neatly taped receipts. "Yes, I am amazing," she would say in answer to his boggling disbelief, "and don't think you don't owe me for it."

Al gives Clark a similar look of exasperation when he takes over the bill-paying, although at least he has the courtesy not to call Clark a financial moron to his face. It seems the accounts are in worse shape than Clark even anticipated, because Al spends an entire day at the desk in the living room, stacks of envelopes carefully sorted, papers laid out in front of him, scribbling notes, his face set in a ferocious expression of concentration. It's far more intricate than any check-writing Clark has ever done, and every time he passes by, he takes a long look, trying to figure out exactly what Al is doing.

When he finally comes out and asks, Al doesn't look up, his fingers flying over the adding machine keys. "Financial acrobatics."

At lunch, he goes into more detail, "The good news is we've managed to settle all our bills. The bad news is that's not going to last very long."

Clark nods. "I'll see if I can drum up some steady work. It's construction season. Maybe some dry-walling or framing."

"Clark, how are you going to do that and take care of the farm? We've already established I'm pretty useless in that department."

"Not useless, indoorsy. And I'll," he waves a hand in the air, "figure something out."

Al assumes a let's-get-practical expression, "Whatever money you make is only going to be a temporary fix. We need to develop a long-term business plan for the vineyard. Investigate farm subsidies. Small business loans. Government grant programs…" He reels off a long list of other possibilities to explore.

By the end of it, Clark is frowning in consternation. "My father never did any of that."

"Because his farm was already well established, I'm guessing, passed down in the family."

Clark nods. "Four generations."

"We're not in that position. Let me do some research. I'll see what I can come up with, and then we can discuss our options."

Clark reluctantly agrees--there's too much obvious sense in the suggestion to do otherwise--but just the thought of Al spending hours googling who-knows-what drives him half crazy with dread. He's done what he could to truth-proof the computer, purged anything remotely revealing from the hard drive, cleared the browser's cache, deleted Chloe's email. There's a strong box out in the barn where's taken to hiding things, including the printout of the information she sent him. Whatever happens happens, he tries to tell himself philosophically, but that doesn't stop him from finding one feeble excuse after another to come back inside that afternoon, to make sure Al isn't packing up to leave for good.

Each time, he finds him immersed in his work, making careful notes on a yellow legal pad, staring into the computer screen as if he can read the future there. Clark sneaks a peak over Al's shoulder every chance he gets, but the fact that Al is never doing anything more alarming than browsing the U.S. Department of Agriculture site or writing down phone numbers for the Small Business Administration doesn't reassure him. It's hard not to feel that he's only one click away from being on the next plane back to Metropolis.

"Do you need something, Clark?" Al finally asks, not even bothering to look up, knowing full well that Clark is there, watching. He's never been able to lurk unobtrusively.

"Um, well--" He flails around for a likely excuse and comes up with, "I was wondering what you'd like for dinner?"

Al glances over his shoulder, gives Clark a polite smile that's clearly his cue to get lost. "Why don't you let me take care of that?"

"Okay. If you want." He takes a deep breath, tries to think of something else to say. The more time Al spends talking to him the less time spent on the Internet with all its infernal information. Clark has never hated free speech so much in his life.

But there really is nothing else to say, and the impatient way Al's eyes are boring into him makes it too uncomfortable to linger. "Okay, then. I guess I'll be going back outside now. See you at supper."

Al gives him a distracted nod, returning to his research. Clark trudges out to the fields, gets on his tractor, goes back to spreading the compost. He's so jittery that the plodding pace up and down each row feels like a slow, chugging sort of torture. Finally, he cuts off the engine with a sigh and hops down, deciding it's just no good sticking around the place, waiting with his stomach in a knot for Al to uncover his lies. Maybe if he takes matters into his own hands, makes some sort of hopeful gesture he can ward off disaster. He's already given in to group delusion; it's a slippery slope from there to all-out superstition.

He goes into the barn, pulls out the strong box from the back of his tool bench, punches in the numeric code, and the lid springs open. Inside are his old press credentials, his mother's wedding ring, along with the photographs he's come to get, snapshots of vacations and family holidays, exiled to the barn because Al's conspicuous absence from them would raise too many questions.

The Kinko's is over in Charleysburg, the same town where the Target is. Clark explains what he needs to the clerk, tells her it's a gag gift for a buddy's birthday. She's maybe seventeen and gives him a disappointed look, as if she thinks a person his age really should have outgrown such things by now. She sets him up at a computer where he'll have everything he needs to counterfeit a life history. He scans in the photos of himself, uses the same Internet he was cursing only an hour earlier to find pictures of Lex Luthor, and after some artistic false starts manages to cobble together a handful of fairly convincing Pacino-Kent family photos. While he's there, he goes ahead and makes up a forged marriage license, for good measure.

When he gets home, he parks the truck out by the barn, so Al won't hear the engine. As he goes inside, there's a part of him that genuinely expects to find the house empty.

Instead, he's greeted by the smell of…he doesn't know what exactly, only that it smells incredibly good. He tracks it to the kitchen, finds Al at the stove, every burner going, stirring something in a saucepan with one hand, taking a skillet off the heat with the other. There are implements Clark had no idea he owned laid out on the counter, things he'd be hard pressed to even identify, that must have belonged to his mother, that he'd packed up without really thinking about it.

Clark peers over Al's shoulder. There's what looks to be chicken and some kind of very fragrant sauce, asparagus, a white circle of batter in a pan, crepes in the making, and Clark tries to imagine where Al learned to cook like this, pictures a boy consigned to a brigade of nannies, trailing behind housekeepers in the kitchen, little eyes taking in the secrets of the fancy food that would later be served to his parents on a starched white cloth in the dining room, maybe even being allowed to lick the bowl when he was very, very good.

Clark fends off the sadness the image gives him with a heartfelt, "Wow."

Al turns, face brightening. "You think?"

"The minute I came through the door everything smelled so good. Just like it used to when--" The reminiscence gets choked off by an unanticipated flash of pain.

Al's face takes on a compassionate look of understanding. "Your mother was a good cook?"

Clark nods, not trusting himself to do more than that, the sudden emotion still raw-feeling in the back of his throat. It passes eventually, replaced by a sense of warmth at the memory. "My mother loved being in the kitchen. It was her way of taking care of us, but it was also...a creative thing, I guess you'd say."

Al nods. "I feel that, too. Have I always liked to cook?"

"Since I've known you."

"How did I learn?"

"Well--" Clark stumbles for a moment, the picture of those phantom housekeepers making it hard for him to think of anything else. "You were a short-order cook there for a while."

"I worked at a greasy spoon?" Al's lip curls up in distaste.

"It was more like a truck stop."

Al lets out a heavy sigh. "Okay, you can stop telling me about my life now."

Clark pats him on the shoulder. "After you stopped working for your father, you needed a job, and that's what you could find. You were good at it, too. The owner always said you brought a touch of class to the place."

"He did?" Al asks, somewhat mollified.

Clark nods. "Truthfully, you helped save his business. Word got out that this was the best meal on the road, and the place was packed all the time."

""Well, of course it was," Al says with a sniff, but there's a pleased touch of pink in his cheeks.

Al turns his attention back to his sauce, adding a pinch of salt, and Clark should just leave well enough alone.

But he doesn't. "That's one of the things that made me fall in love with you," he finds himself saying.

Al turns his head sharply, their eyes meeting, and Clark feels it right in the pit of his stomach. For a moment, neither of them looks away, and there's a tight, coiled energy in the room, like something has to give.

It's Al who finally does, unlocking his gaze, turning his attention back to the stove. "I saved you from your own cooking, huh?"

Clark laughs. "Well, there was that. But I was thinking in particular about one of our first dates. You wanted to make chicken and dumplings. It's my favorite. But something went wrong, and it didn't come out right."

Al snorts. "I find that hard to believe."

Clark smiles at him. "Yeah, you felt the same way back then. You were really set on getting it right, though. So you threw the whole thing out and started over. I think we finally had dinner around midnight."

"And this is why you love me?" Al asks skeptically.

"I appreciate determination," Clark tells him.

"Well, I hope I made up for my culinary failings in some way." He says it lightly, like a joke, but the way his eyes search Clark's face is intimately serious.

"Um, yeah. It was," Clark clears his throat, "a good night."

The phone ringing is a splash of cold water in the face, not particularly pleasant, but certainly useful. This is always the problem with lying, Clark remembers somewhat belatedly. Once you get started, the whole thing snowballs, until you're standing in your kitchen, halfway convinced that your non-existent first date with your so-called husband ended with inedible dumplings and the best sex you've ever had.

"I'll just," he takes a sensible step back from Al, "go get that."

The call seems a little less like a godsend when he answers and it's Chloe.

"Oh, hi, um," Al is watching curiously, and he plasters a bland smile on his face, the kind he imagines he must wear when he's talking to his customers, "Ms. Sullivan. What can I do for you?"

Chloe laughs. "Well, hi there yourself, Mr. Kent. And, actually, it's what I can do for you."

"Oh, really? Um," he keeps watch on Al, although he's performing some kind of complicated maneuver with the chicken and the crepes and doesn't appear to be paying particular attention to the conversation, "is this about what we talked about the other day?"

"Why, yes, Mr. Kent," Chloe says, her voice throaty with amusement, "it is. You know, Clark, I'd almost think you have someone there with you. Don't tell me you got lucky."

"Um, well--" He tries to twist his mouth into the shape of denial, but there's lying, and then there's lying to Chloe.

She sighs, and he knows without a doubt that she's rolling her eyes. "Just give it up already, Clark. I talked to Pete. I know."

He goes hot in the face and ducks into the living room, so Al won't notice. "I don't know what Pete told you, but it's not--"

"Just tell me you weren't planning this when you called me," there's an edge to her voice, and Clark knows that sound. She only gets it when she thinks she's being used.

"No! It just happened. I swear!"

He explains then, about that day and the yacht and Lex Luthor, even the naked part, because she'll know if he leaves anything out.

"Ah," she says, understanding why he didn't confide this little detail to Pete. "So when you saw him again at the hospital--"

"I had to help him, Chloe. That's--"

"Just what Clark Kent does," she says with an exasperated sort of fondness.

"So you're...not mad?" he asks carefully.

"I'd describe it more as concerned."

"There's nothing going on," Clark says defensively. "We're not-- I wouldn't--"

"Clark, I appreciate that you want to help him, but you're setting yourself up for some serious heartbreak here. Can't you see that?

"It isn't like that. I'm not--" He squeezes his eyes shut. "I just-- I need to do this."

She sighs in resignation. "If I can't change your mind, let me at least tell you what I found out." Clark hears the shuffling of papers as she takes out her notes. "My contact came up with several drugs that could account for Lex's psychotic symptoms. One in particular, though, causes neck pain. It's brand new on the market, would have still been in the final phases of FDA approval six months ago. Developed by a company called Landor PharmaCo. I did some digging, and guess who owns it?"

"LuthorCorp," Clark says without a beat, the pieces falling sickeningly into place.

"None other."

He tightens his grip on the phone. "I know this is a big story, and I know it's asking a huge favor, but--"

"I'm not going to write this, Clark. There's no solid evidence, and I'm not crazy enough to go up against Lionel Luthor without it. Besides, I have a learned a thing or two about putting friendship before work."

"Thanks, Chloe," he tells her gratefully.

"Just think about what I said, okay?"

He sighs. "Okay."

After he hangs up, Al wants to know, "Who was that?"

Clark shakes his head. "Oh-- no one." He offers Chloe a mental apology.

Al's eyes linger on him curiously, but he doesn't pursue the matter any further. "Can you get the plates for me?"

Al serves up the food. They sit down to eat, and everything is just as good as it looks.

"Delicious," Clark say at least five times, and Al looks pleased on each occasion.

"I had a very productive afternoon with the research," Al tells him.

"Oh, yeah?"

Al nods. "Have you thought about bottling our first vintage this fall? The grapes are mature enough, aren't they?"

"Well, yes," Clark says hesitantly.

"But?"

"We don't--" He sighs, feeling like someone who should never have gone into business for himself. "You know our money issues."

Clark's feelings of failure must show, because Al fixes him with a chastising look, "We both got us into this mess, Clark. So stop looking so guilty. Besides, I think I figured a way out of it."

He fills Clark in on a federal grant program he found online that assists startup businesses in areas with high levels of unemployment to help encourage the development of new industry.

"Blue Cove, luckily for us, unluckily for the town, qualifies," Al explains. "I downloaded the application. The deadline is only three weeks away. That's a lot of work in not much time, but I think we can make it."

Al's excitement has a contagious quality, but there remains a streak of the realist farmer in Clark. "The grant sounds great, if we can get it. It does just leave the same problem I've had since I bought this place. I don't know a thing about winemaking."

"I'm taking it that I don't either?" Al asks, and Clark shakes his head. "That's pretty much what I thought. So I did some research into Oregon State's agricultural school. They have several winemaking courses we can take. I also found an organization, the American Association of Winemakers."

"Yeah, I've heard of that."

Al nods. "They keep a directory of master vintners. Wineries can hire them as consultants. We can figure the cost for that into our grant proposal. It's a justifiable expense, since we're still learning the business."

"You've really thought this through," Clark tells him, genuinely impressed.

Al smiles and gives a little shrug. "I seem to have a knack for it. I guess I am indoorsy, after all."

Clark grins, and the urge to embellish takes over once more, "You once saw this ad on the inside of a matchbook. Um," he stutters, "back when you used to smoke, before I got you to quit. Anyway, you sent away for this correspondence course on business management and got your certificate in just two months. That was the fastest anybody had ever done it. The teacher even wrote you a nice letter telling you what a natural you were. We've got it around here somewhere." He makes a show of frowning, as if trying to remember where they put it. "Anyway, I was very proud.

Al's eyes meet his, and the look on his face is so unshuttered, soft with yearning that Clark feels a flash of panic. He stares nervously down at his plate, and they fall silent as they finish their dinner.

"I'll do the dishes," Clark volunteers. "It's only fair, since you cooked."

Clark beats a hasty retreat to the sink, and Al follows a moment later, bringing his dishes, sliding them into the soapy water, his expression perfectly opaque once more. He knows something about hiding too, Clark thinks, as he starts to scrub a plate.

Al settles in the living room, leaving Clark to the washing up, and Clark joins him when he's done. Al is bent over a book, and Clark picks up the paper, but there's an awkwardness between them now, when everything was so congenial before.

"Oh, um, hey," Clark says when the quiet gets too much for him, "you know those mementoes you were asking about? I searched though some boxes and managed to dig up a few things."

Al looks up from his book, keen with interest. Clark goes to get their faked personal history from his jacket and sits down next to Al to show him.

"Okay," he says, "here's one of us on our honeymoon in Cancun. You weren't too crazy about me wearing that Hawaiian shirt, but you were trying to be brave about it. And here's one of us in our apartment in Metropolis, right after we got married. We hadn't redecorated yet. Oh, and here's one from the wedding. That was a crazy day. The minister was an hour late and smelled like vodka, and your father kept pinching the waitresses at the reception. But we still managed to have a good time."

Al takes the pictures out of Clark's hands and scrutinizes each one. "Why do I always look so sarcastic?"

Clark can hardly tell him the truth, that being hounded by paparazzi will do that to anyone. "Um, well," he stalls, "you're, uh, not really that crazy about having your picture taken. You know, after the gland problem and everything." He moves on breezily, "Hey, you want to watch the game? It's almost time for the first pitch." He gets up to turn on the TV.

Al unfolds the fraudulent marriage license and peruses it. "Why didn't I just take your name when we got married?" he wants to know. "Or better yet, why didn't I change my name the minute I turned eighteen and had some legal recourse? I had to be tired of all the mockery I'm sure I must have endured."

"Um, well, I guess you kind of thought of it as a challenge?" He claps his hands together. "How about a beer?"

Al nods distractedly, still sorting through the pictures. Clark comes back with two bottles and settles next to Al on the sofa to watch the game. They're interrupted in the third inning by someone at the door, and Clark can only hope it's not another surprise visit from the sheriff.

It turns out to be Pete, about the last person Clark was expecting. Since that tense call the evening he brought Al home, Pete has kept his distance. The few times Clark has heard from him have been all business, Pete letting him know about a job, in the clipped, just-the-facts way that Clark always thinks of as his Mr. Factory Owner voice.

"Hey, man," Pete says a little tentatively, as if he's unsure of his welcome.

Clark opens the door wide and takes a step back. "Good to see you."

Pete comes inside, and Al gets to his feet, his expression quickly flickering through a range of reactions, surprise, wariness and finally settling on curiosity.

Clark does the introductions, "Al, this is Pete Ross. He's an old friend of mine from back East. In fact, it was thanks to him that we bought the vineyard and moved out here."

Pete shifts his weight uncomfortably, but does his best to play along like a good sport, "Um, hey...Al. Uh, it's...good to see you."

"Thanks." Al glances from Pete back to Clark, frowning a little, no doubt picking up the tension. "Can I get you a beer?"

Pete plasters on a smile. "Sure, man. That would be great."

Al goes off to get it, and Pete says under his breath, "If you ever would have told me I'd be drinking beer with Lex Luthor--"

Clark gives him a shushing look, and Al returns a moment later. "Here you go." He gestures toward a chair. "Have a seat."

"Yeah, Pete," Clark says, "hang out with us a while."

They spend the next five minutes taking sips of their beers, eyeing each other expectantly, waiting for someone to think of something to say.

It's Pete who finally takes the plunge, "So the house is really looking good."

Al glances around with a critical eye. "We've been trying to get it into shape. There are still some things we'd like to do, but we're pretty happy with it for now."

"Looks like a whole new place," Pete says, valiantly keeping the conversation going. "I mean, is that the same old sofa?"

"Yeah," Clark says, rather proud of Al's resourcefulness, "you'd never know it, would you?"

Pete shakes his head. "I'm impressed. I guess it just takes two to make a home, huh, Clark?" Beneath the friendly tone is a note of rebuke.

Clark looks down at the tops of his boots. "Something like that, Pete."

Al looks confused again by the undercurrents between them and tries changing the subject, "So, Pete, maybe you can help fill in some gaps for me. Tell me something about the old days in Metropolis. I assume we must have spent time together there? Since you're such a close friend of Clark's."

Pete gets a helpless look on his face. "Well-- actually, I didn't see much of you guys when you were living back East."

"Oh," Al says, trying to hide his surprise.

"Pete was already in Blue Cove by the time we met, busy working on his empire," Clark jumps in. "He owns the plumbing parts factory. Largest, most successful business in town."

"That's quite an accomplishment," Al tells him. "You'll have to share some of your secrets with us. Clark and I just started working on our own business plan. We hope to get the winery up and running in time to bottle our first vintage this fall."

Pete looks from Al to Clark, startled, "Oh, well-- that's great. I'm glad to hear it." He narrows his eyes at Clark. "Sounds like you two have been very busy making plans together."

Clark gives him a flat smile and suggests, "Al and I were going to watch the game. You want to stay and catch it with us?"

Pete tips back the rest of his beer. "Nah, man. Thanks. I'd better be going. I just wanted to stop by and-- you know, check up on you." He smiles at little stiffly at Al. "Glad to see you're doing better."

Al nods, still looking rather mystified by the entire visit.

Clark gets to his feet. "I'll walk you out to your truck. I've got a question about that job over at the Nances."

Pete waits until they are well clear of the door before saying, "Man, what are you doing?"

"I don't know what you--"

"Don't play that with me, man. I may not be in the club. I may not know the gay man's secret handshake. But I am not blind, either. Or stupid. I see the way you look at him. Hell, I see the way he looks at you. And I repeat: What are you doing?"

That Pete has a point only makes Clark want to deny it more vehemently. "I don't know what you think you saw, but--"

Pete pokes him in the chest. "You know, I never thought I'd say this to you, Clark, of all people, but you're taking advantage of this situation, of someone who can't judge things for himself."

Clark can feel the heat rushing to his cheeks, the beginning of very real anger. "I am not taking advantage of him."

"Oh, yeah?" Pete challenges him. "Well, what do you call it then? The way you're playing house with him. Making plans for the future. For God's sake, he thinks he's your husband. Of course, he's going to think he's supposed to have feelings for you. Supposed to want to--"

"He did want to, before he lost his memory," Clark blurts out rashly in his determination to prove Pete wrong.

The second it's out of his mouth he wishes he could take it back.

Pete's eyes get big. "He-- You--" He frowns fiercely and his voice rises, "Is that why Lionel Luthor threw you off his boat?"

Clark stares stonily at the ground, his jaw clenched.

Pete lets out his breath. "Geez, man. That just-- It makes this whole thing so much more fucked up, you know?"

Clark sighs heavily. "Yeah, Pete. I know."

Pete shakes his head. "You got to watch yourself, Clark. Seriously."

Clark nods. "You're right." He meets Pete's eye, earnestly. "I really do know you're right. And I'm trying-- I don't want to take advantage of him. I swear."

"I know, man. I know. I am glad you're making a go of things around here. I can't say I understand why it took this to make you want to try, but that doesn't change the fact that it's a good thing."

Clark smiles. "Thanks, Pete. I appreciate it."

Pete nods, his expression not exactly easy, but at least reconciled as he climbs into his truck. "I'll talk to you, Clark."

When Clark gets back inside, Al is waiting. "He doesn't like me, does he?"

Clark puts a hand on his shoulder. "That's not it." Al gives him a skeptical look, and Clark struggles with an explanation, "It's just-- you see, Pete and I have been best friends for a really, really long time. Since kindergarten. And you were the first serious relationship I ever had, and it all happened so fast."

Al frowns. "We didn't know each other long before we got married?"

Clark shakes his head. "Not unless you count two weeks as long. Like they always say you just know when it's right. We eloped to Las Vegas. Stayed in the honeymoon suite." He describes it for Al, in intimate detail, the first time his little red-rock adventure with Alicia has ever come in useful in any way.

"So...your point is?"

"That Pete hasn't really gotten a chance to know you yet."

"And he's not used to sharing you," Al says.

"You know how possessive best friends can be."

"Is that all there is to it, Clark?"

The coiled note of jealousy in Al's voice takes Clark off guard. "No! I mean, yeah. That's all. Pete and I, we're not-- Let's just say that Pete's major hobby back in high school was dreaming up hair-brained schemes to meet girls."

"Oh," Al says, a little embarrassed, at the same time also visibly relieved.

"Pete'll come around," Clark tells him, as much to reassure himself as Al. "You'll see."

Al doesn't look particularly convinced, but he does let the matter drop, settling back onto the sofa to finish watching the game. When it's time for bed, they have what has become their typical evening ritual. Al puts his hands on his hips, a determined expression on his face, practically daring Clark to play the insomnia card again.

Clark ends the standoff with a quick, non-negotiable kiss goodnight. "I'll see you in the morning."

Al scowls at him before disappearing into the bedroom with an expressive slam of the door. Clark flops onto his back on the sofa, stares up at the ceiling, wondering how much longer he can keep up this delicate balancing act before he has to tell Al the truth. Or let go of all claim to being a responsible person with some sense of right and wrong.

Tonight the accumulated weariness of all his sleepless nights finally catches up to him. His lungs feel sluggish, breathing more of a chore than it should be. He's heavy-limbed but still restlessness, an uncomfortable contradiction, and he gets up again, prowls around the kitchen, opens cabinets, the refrigerator. He's not hungry, doesn't even know what he's looking for. He hasn't bothered to turn on the lights, and he can see the fields clearly through the window. In the dim light of a half moon, the vines look like an ocean, restless and dark, the wind moving through their tendrils like the play of waves.

It calls to Clark, and he goes out through the back door, not bothering with shoes or a jacket. He doesn't feel the cold. He walks into the fields, keeps going until he comes to a spot that feels right, and then he squats down, into the cool clods, the fertile smell rising up from the soil.

Clark's father used to tell him, "They call farming husbandry for a reason, son. It's not just a business or even a way of life. It's a sacred responsibility." Clark wonders if this is why Al and the vines are tangled up in his thoughts right now, why they both keep him awake night after night trying to figure out how he can give them what they need, make good on his responsibility to care for them. It's not the same sense of accountability he used to carry back in Metropolis, less a burden, more poignant, because if he fails at this, it will be crushing in a way that is very, very personal.

He has no idea how long he lingers there, hands clenching and unclenching in the dirt, feeling the pulse of it, the sharp buzz of life on the pads of his fingers. He's lost in his thoughts and doesn't hear the quiet approach. When he glances up and sees Al standing there in his cowboy hat and lasso pajamas, he assumes at first he must be dreaming.

It's Al's voice that makes him real. "Come to bed."

He's not wearing any shoes either, his bare feet pale and vulnerable on the rough, dark earth, arms crossed over the thin fabric of his T-shirt.

"It's cold out here," Clark tells him mechanically. "You should go inside."

Al pays him no mind. "Come to bed. You need some sleep." Clark opens him mouth, but whatever unlikely excuse he might have offered is lost to Al's impatience. "Just come on."

They go back inside, and Al takes Clark's hand in a firm grip, leading him to the bedroom. Al slips back into bed. Clark pulls off his shirt and jeans and follows, and Al switches off the lamp. He turns onto his side, facing the wall, and Clark lies flat on his back, feeling more self-conscious now than he did a few days ago when the back rub escalated out of control, more aware that he's hijacked some privilege that doesn't belong to him. He stays perfectly still, taking no chances that he might accidentally brush against Al, barely daring to breathe.

Finally, Al lets out his breath, a heavy exhalation, and flips over to confront Clark, "I assume we have slept together at some point in the course of our marriage. So what exactly is the problem?"

In the half-dark, he can make out only the broad features of Al's face, and that makes him seem like even more of a stranger. "You don't know me."

Al doesn't answer for several long moments, and Clark has to wait in the enormousness of the quiet, knowing Al is watching him, having no earthly idea what it is that he's seeing.

"I know enough." Al punctuates the declaration by pressing close, commandeering Clark's chest as a pillow, throwing one leg over Clark's in a territorial display. "So just get used to this."

Clark's heart thuds in a panicky staccato even as his arms instinctively close around Al's shoulder, as he drops a kiss to the top of his head. Al lets out a soft, contented sigh, and Clark really wishes he could tell him the truth. That getting used to this isn't the problem.

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From:

suzvoy.livejournal.com

Ohhh, man. That ending! Lex coming out to get him...lying in bed together... *swoon*

From:

Not a homecoming queen

WIP: You Can Call Me Al (Part Nine)

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