Summary: Clark thinks about running.
Disclaimer: Still not mine. :(
I ran. Turned into a fucking coward and couldn't be in his presence anymore. His insane, vindicated, vulnerable presence.
So I ran. Heard them coming for him and superspeeded out of there.
I should have taken him with me. I was terrified. No choice, I would end up telling Mom and Dad and Pete. He would have died.
Shame and rage warring inside, and I can't even bear to close my eyes, can't stand to see that look on his face again. Some kind of misplaced elation, like he just discovered, yes, Lex there is a Santa Claus, you were right all along, but hey, no new toys for you. You're not supposed to really know.
I want to take it back; keep running so we would both be out of harm's way, whisk Lex into the nearest hiding place and let him ask me whatever he wanted to ask. Tell him I know, that I believe him. Tell him about the scotch, tell him I'd never let them take him away.
Except, maybe it wasn't all the scotch. Previous history of breakdowns, Chloe had discovered. Maybe the scotch just made it worse.
Still, his face in the forefront of my mind, frantic, tears of pleading desperation in his eyes and how could I not help him? How could I let that go on and turn my back? Better to turn my back on my parents and smooth things over later.
But God, I should have stayed. I could have stopped them. I'd die a thousand deaths to take it back, to not hear that last final "Clark!" before they shoved him into the car and sped away. Lionel can't be right; Lex can't be crazy. Can he?
I think I've lost my mind, too, because I am going to find out where they've taken him.
And I'm getting him out. I'll run.
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