Title: A Place Called Home
Category: Future-Fic, Drama, Angst
Disclaimer: Not mine. Pity.
Notes: There are no quotation marks. So you don't get confused. Summary: He has no where to go and no one to save him anymore.
Someday I'll go where there ain't no rain or snow
`Til then, I travel alone
And I make my bed with the stars above my head And I dream of a place called home
The farm echos now that no one lives there.
He can stand in the front yard with his eyes closed and feel the wind whipping across his body, not stopping to greet another person, just continuing on to leave the now empty home. Everything and everybody leaves his house now; as if they feel the ghosts of the Kent's like he does. Sure they visit, they spend time offering him empty words of comfort that feels nothing but cold but they never stay long. Lana encourages him to come into town and get a cup of coffee and "talk". Chloe and Lois call him from Gotham and Metropolis respectively, and demand that he get off his ass and go back to his tiny apartment and his even tinier job. Bruce and Diana visit at night when no one is sure to be around and try to persuade him back to his other job. Well, Diana tries for persuasive, Bruce intimidates.
It doesn't work.
The emptiness of the house, of the barn, of the farm kills him. There is no more warmth there and the frigidity reminds him that he can't make this place liveable by himself; just another of his faults. He's tried to bake peach pie like Martha taught him and even though it tasted fine, there was no comforting cinnamon and sugar smell permeating in the air like when she baked. He trekked mud in the house like his Jonathan did after a long day but the patterns of dirt on the hardwood floors looked nothing like the more assured walk of the other Kent.
He's finally alone. It only took twenty seven years and several million light years.
The day the car slows to a stop in the driveway is a sunless one and Clark feels more tired than he can ever remember feeling. He's weakened and maybe that is the only way he can do this.
There aren't any explosions, any fireworks as the other man gets out of his car. There is only quiet acceptance of the fact that Clark's life will change again with this man, that his life has always changed with this man. In the beginning, it had made him angry. Now, he knows that it was always meant to be this way he can feel it in his bones.
I know why you're here the man says.
Really? No one else had known.
Without them, you're afraid that you'll have no one to rely on.
I have plenty of people to rely on.
None that will keep you the person that they wanted you to be.
And it's the truth. The reason that he's left Metropolis and hung up his uniform. Without the backbone of Jonathan Kent and the steady confidence of Martha Kent, Clark Kent is nothing but an illusion. And Superman cannot stand on the shoulders of an illusion. It would only be a matter of time before the red boots would slip and the world would crumble from the strength of his hands. He is nothing but a grand illusion of carefully built smoke and mirrors that have just come crashing down.
He is silent, watching the man who is watching him. There is no need to deny the statement or try to give some other frivolous reason for running. It's a relief to pass the burden to someone else. Someone who can appreciate masks and illusions; who knows all about the people behind the man. That it's the support that makes the man.
Can I come in? It's a question that the man already knows the answer to. Clark has never denied him a place to come in out of the cold.
They sit at the scarred table, both silent. It's a comfortable and familiar silence that reminds Clark of Sunday nights when Martha and Jonathan would sit at this table, him going over farm reports or the paper, she reading a book from the library. Clark would watch them from the living room when he was younger and marvel at their ability to touch each other without speaking or looking or physically touching. Were people meant to be that close?
I'm sorry that I wasn't able to attend the funeral. It's not a subject that Clark likes to talk about and the other man senses that and lets the topic drift away, as if caught by a blast from the air conditioner.
I'm done. This makes Clark look up, slightly upset at the talking that is permeating the silence but mostly confused over the topic.
I don't understand.
There's nothing left for me. My job is done if there's no more you.
I'm still me. The statement sounds childlike and unsure as his brain sluggishly trips over what the other man is saying.
Clark's identity is gone, ripped from him and here is the other man just giving his away. Every truth he knew about himself was decimated with the ringing phone and the stale voice telling him that there had been a car accident. In that moment the shock and rage had galloped through him but there had been a part, a tiny part, of him that had been relieved and glad that there was nothing expected of him anymore.
That had scared him so badly. Who was he to be thinking thoughts like that? What was he? He had no idea and there was no one to define it for him anymore. No one to specify what was wrong and what was good. No one to trust as implicitly as he had trusted them.
Clark? There is a hand caressing his hand coaxing him from his thoughts.
Clark looks at the man who stares at him back. For someone who has easily dropped an image, a persona, that took years to cultivate, there is an annoying air of nonchalance around him. Clark allowed himself to look closer, closer than he had in years and see the ring of red around the man's eyes. That ring looked... fearful. Alone. Maybe like Clark was.
There is no me without you. I figured that out a long time ago
But who am I? It's the question that he can't answer and the question that no one has been able to answer or even ask.
They make up for lost time in his old bedroom. He hasn't been able to open the door of Martha and Jonathan's since the accident.
Clark is able to roll his head to the left, look out the window and see the moon hanging over the sky which looks nothing like the sky of Metropolis. The sky is inky blue, not stark black. There are no clouds and the sky holds more stars than not. It's breathtaking although he is already laboring for every intake of oxygen.
The other man kisses his collar bone, bringing Clark back to him. Delicate hands trace invisible patterns into Clark's skin and Clark suddenly knows for sure that he will feel this forever. The other man was right, there is no Clark without him and maybe, just maybe, Clark can define himself by this. Maybe this is what has been missing.
One hand comes up to cup his cheek and push his head to the right, curving his neck around the other man's head. There is a tiny kiss to the place where his neck meets his shoulder and Clark allows his head to be turned so he can nuzzle into the soft skin, breathing in the smells of Metropolis. It's too thick and artificial after the smells of the farm and turns his stomach a bit so he moves his head up slightly, clearing his nose with the smell of fabric softer.
The other man doesn't seem to notice or maybe he's too busy trying to rid his skin from the smell of city. He moves his body so his face is above Clark's, their noses centimeters from touching. Clark stares into eyes that are also inky blue and wonders if this is what was meant for him. To be filled with kisses and touches and not being so empty anymore.
It feels right as the other man leans down to kiss him, his tongue asking for passage as it plays outside of Clark's lips. It's nothing to part them and use his tongue back. It feels good, clean, pure. Clark presses his lips against the other lips harder, feeling the soft give of lips and the gentle agreement. And although there is a physical weight pressed on him, he feels another weight begin to alleviate and lift.
You don't have to be everything to everyone.
Clark listens to the statement that is muttered softly. Just everything to you? He asks, genuinely curious.
You've always been everything to me.
Buttons are easy to unbutton, the clasp on his pants harder to work and soon they're both covered in sweat and gliding against each other. Clark doesn't say anything, feeling like he's on the cusp of something important and fearing that speaking would break that. Cause the other man to leave. Instead, he grips the other man's back and spreads his legs, allowing them more room to move - more friction to get them there.
The other man moans as his thrusts change angles, his hand in Clark's hair and he grabs a handful to anchor himself. They kiss again Clark figures it's a good place to lose himself in. It's good to lose his hands to soft skin and to lose his orgasm while concentrating on the other man's orgasm. Nothing ever felt quite as good as seeing the other face break at that moment, head thrown forward, eyes closed as tightly as a newborns.
Coming down was jarring as he suddenly feels fear. The fear that his emptiness had been trying so hard to hide from the rest of him, allowing him to be numb. Fear that soon, he would put the cape back on and trek out to make his own way without the confines of cloying morals. It wouldn't be that hard, he was never the strong one.
I'm not going anywhere. It has to be said several more times and Clark still doesn't believe until he wakes up the next morning and Lex is still lying next to him. Lex's smile and soft hands and whispers about keeping him safe, making sure that the world makes sense once more. The cape stays in the closet but it's worth it to see colors again after years of living only in black and white.
Home is still the same place it's always been. It's just defined differently now.
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