Summary: Lex gets lost, and Clark claims him. A la "Overboard."

Warnings: Eventually rated NC-17. m/m.

There's only one road in Blue Cove. It passes straight through the heart of town, past Tom Bramley's Shoe Repair and the recently opened Army-Navy surplus store, meandering out to Pete's plumbing parts plant and the heavily forested land beyond that. Route 12, the Federal Highway Administration calls it, but the townspeople have always known it as Old Jim Jarwell Road, a tribute to Blue Cove's founding patriarch. They're stubborn about it too, refusing to change the name on local maps. Blue Cove isn't the kind of place that has much use for interference from the federal government.

It isn't the kind of place, either, Clark would have imagined Pete settling after college. Everybody always just assumed he would stay in Kansas, a true native son. But when the opportunity came to invest in the plumbing parts plant, Blue Cove's only real industry, Pete didn't hesitate. He put down the money his parents had saved for him from the sale of the creamed corn factory and went into business for himself.

Seven years later, Pete is Mr. Blue Cove, the principal employer in town, president of the Chamber of Commerce, talk in the air of a possible run for mayor. Whenever Clark walks down the street with him, he's amazed by the number of people who come up to shake his hand. It's like being friends with a celebrity, a little strange, especially when Clark thinks back to the kid he knew in high school, dreaming up wacky schemes to meet girls, joining the football team so he wouldn't get beaten up. Pete, on the verge of thirty, is made of confidence, a man with serious responsibilities, a natural air of authority to him that wins people's trust.

This doesn't keep Clark from teasing him, of course. He's still Pete, and they've been friends too long for anything to change between them. Besides, he can't pass up the chance to see Pete bluster as he defends his adopted home.

"You know there's only one road for a reason," Clark likes to kid him, "because this truly is a one-horse town."

Pete insists it's all a matter of geography, the way Blue Cove perches on the cliffs above the sea limiting its infrastructure options. "There's just no room for another road," he says. "This is the coast, man. You're just used to being landlocked, that's your problem."

These playful arguments usually end with a round of beers down at Shorty's Bowl-a-rama. The truth is that Clark likes Blue Cove well enough. It has all the reassuring rhythms of a small town, people get up early, there's only one of any kind of store, and nobody bothers to lock their doors. At the same time, it doesn't remind him of Smallville, the dull pounding of the waves and the screeching of sea birds as they circle the marina too exotic to his heartland sensibilities to make him think of home.

He's been doing his best to fit in, to become a true Blue-Covian like Pete. As he rumbles along in his truck over Old Jim Jarwell Road, passing by the five and dime with its big glass window, he waves to everybody strolling along the sidewalk, the way people do here, and they all wave back, although some of them look kind of confused. It's been six months, but Clark hasn't gotten to know that many of his new neighbors yet.

To be honest, Clark's life in Blue Cove is simple, even spare--he spends his time fixing up his place, doing odd jobs to make ends meet, hanging out with Pete--and it makes him all the more aware of how complicated things had gotten back in Metropolis before he left. He'd wanted to help people, felt a responsibility to use his alien powers for some purpose. He just never anticipated how that impulse might careen out of control. By the end, he was working all day at the Planet, spending every night out patrolling, never sleeping, his senses on constant overdrive, the sound of human misery his ever-present companion.

When the call came that his parents had been in a serious accident, Clark was out playing the hero. His father died instantly in the five-car pileup, thrown through the truck's windshield, but his mother lingered a few hours at the hospital. There will always be possibilities that Clark has to consider, what-ifs he tortures himself with. If he'd been at home that night to get the call, maybe he could have seen her one last time, told her goodbye. If he hadn't been out trying to save other people, maybe he could have saved them.

Pete tells him all the time that this is crazy thinking, a twisted form of grief, and Clark is pretty sure he did go insane for a while after it happened. He never called the Planet to tell them he wasn't coming back, never went back to his apartment to pack up his things. He just walked away from that life, that distraction, like it never happened, and threw himself whole-heartedly into the farm.

It was the only thing that gave him any comfort, rote and physical, getting up at the same time, doing the same things, endlessly. The dull monotony of pitching hay and hammering fences and chugging over the fields on the tractor helped drown out thought. He had no desire to see anyone. Words were points of pain. He preferred silence. When the phone rang too insistently, he pulled it out of the wall, the bare wires dangling from the plaster. When his friends stopped by to check on him--Lois bringing his stuff from Metropolis and Lana dropping off food and Chloe there to listen--he fended them off with a terse "I'm fine," and went back to his mournful farming.

Days vanished in a numb blur of work, became weeks, then months. The farm began to show the strain of his one-man efforts, weeds choking the south pasture, hay moldering in the barn, shingles decaying on the roof of the house, ugly brown rings appearing on the ceiling of his bedroom whenever it rained. It was too much work for one person, at least one person working at human speed, and he stopped using his powers after that night and that missed phone call. It doesn't make sense, he knows, to blame them for what happened. But then, it doesn't make sense either that his parents are gone.

The day Pete showed up at the farm, he was pitching hay in the barn. He didn't stop for hellos, just said, "I'm fine. You didn't have to come."

Pete stood his ground, lifting his chin, stubborn the way he could be sometimes. "You are not fine, Clark. Cutting yourself off from the people who care about you, walking away from everything, turning yourself into the Boo Radley of Smallville…none of that is fine."

Anger flared in his chest. "I'm taking care of the farm! The way my parents would have wanted me to."

"This isn't about what your parents wanted, Clark, and we both know that." His tone grew gentler, "It's not your fault what happened, and they wouldn't ask you to give up your life for their dream."

Clark stared down at the ground. "I just-- I can't go back to Metropolis. There's nothing there for me." He took a breath and held it. "This is all I have now."

Pete shook his head. "That's not true, and being here," he gave Clark a long, appraising look, "it isn't doing you any good. Why not sell this and go somewhere else?"

"I couldn't do that. I wouldn't know where--"

Pete held up his hand. "Hear me out. There's an old vineyard and winery in Blue Cove. I was thinking you could move out there and take it over."

Clark laughed, for the first time since his parents died, and it felt almost painful. "I don't know anything about making wine, Pete. I couldn't just--"

"Sure you could," Pete insisted. "You already know how to run a farm, and you could learn the rest. I'm serious here, man. It's a good opportunity. It would be great for the town, create jobs, bring in tourists. And it would be good for you too. A fresh start somewhere completely different, where there's no history." He smiled. "Where you just happen to have an old friend."

Clark clenched and unclenched his hands on the pitchfork. The beam above the barn door was starting to sag, in serious need of repair, the tractor had stopped working again just that morning. The place was falling apart around him. "I'll have to sleep on it," he said at last.

Pete laid a hand on his shoulder. "I'm staying at my folks. I'll stop by tomorrow."

It probably wasn't the most rational decision Clark ever made, but maybe saving yourself is always more a matter of instinct than intellect. Pete helped him put an ad in the Smallville Gazette, and the local farmers came to make their bids, soft words of condolence worked in among the business talk. When Clark turned over the deed to Mr. Haggerty, the man told him, "I'll do right by your dad, don't you worry none."

So here Clark is, in Blue Cove, and most days he doesn't regret it, although fixing up the winery has proven more of a challenge than he even imagined, a stack of bills piling up on the kitchen table, the money from the sale of the farm almost tapped out. Fortunately, he's friends with the most well-connected guy in town. Pete calls two or three times a week with the name of someone who needs odd jobs done. Clark has discovered he's remarkably handy, at everything from fixing old can openers to framing in rooms, stuff he must have picked up from his dad without even realizing it. He wishes he could have shown his father this while he was still alive, that they're more alike than they ever suspected.

When Pete called about this latest job, though, Clark really thought he was kidding. "You'll never guess who pulled into port. The Luthor family on their corporate yacht, and they have some kind of woodworking emergency. Called over to the Chamber of Commerce looking for somebody who could do the job fast. I said you'd be right over."

"I don't know anything about repairing a boat--"

"Ship, and I got the idea this is more on the decorative side."

"A decorative emergency?"

"They're Luthors, Clark," Pete said, with a little laugh. Now that he's managed to turn his plant into the largest supplier of plumbing parts in the Northwest, his bitterness about the creamed corned factory has finally receded.

"I'm still not sure--"

"They don't know you," Pete said reasonably, "don't know you used to live in Metropolis, and anyway, they're not going to chat up the hired help. I'm sure they'll barely even acknowledge that you exist."

"You're really convincing me," Clark said dryly.

Pete laughed. "Just go. It's good money."

So here he is. He gets out, grabs his toolbox from the back of the truck, and checks the piece of paper where he wrote down the details. Slip 37. He asks the harbormaster, and he points the way to the largest ship in port, its brass fittings shining in the late morning sun. Clark takes a deep breath and heads down the dock.

He finds Lionel Luthor himself waiting on the foredeck, feet planted, hands on his hips. When he spots Clark, he demands to know, "Are you the carpenter?"

"Yes, sir," Clark says, falling back into his old Midwestern mannerisms.

Luthor nods. "Come aboard then." He turns to head inside.

Clark just stares for a moment. The Luthors are Metropolis, and Metropolis…brings back so many memories.

Lionel Luthor glances impatiently over his shoulder. "Is there a problem, young man?"

Clark lets out his breath. He can see exactly how this job is going to go. "Coming."

***

Clark's boots make a dull thud as he clambers aboard, leaving behind a dusty trail of prints on the polished deck. He feels a twinge of guilt for whoever is going to have to clean that up. Inside, he finds himself in a living room or whatever they call it on a ship. His knowledge of nautical parlance hasn't caught up to his circumstances yet.

Lionel Luthor stands at the bar, pouring himself a glass of orange juice. He takes a sip and gives Clark an appraising look over the rim of his glass. Clark is dressed in his typical uniform, a throwback to his high school days, jeans and a flannel shirt, not as clean as they were when he first put them on that morning. His dad always used to say, "Never apologize for not putting on airs, son." But there's still a part of Clark that wants to declare, "I used to wear a tie to work!" At the very least, he wishes he'd thought to change into a fresh T-shirt.

"You have references, I assume," Lionel Luthor says, without prelude.

Clark fights the urge to shuffle his feet. "I, uh-- Well, Mrs. Henderson was so happy when I fixed her kitchen sink she made me a meatloaf to take home. We could call her if you want."

He stops himself before he can add that she'll likely talk his ear off, an elderly lady living alone since her husband died, with grandchildren who hardly ever visit. He's already red-faced, even without the rambling.

Lionel Luthor regards him with a lofty look of sufferance. "I suppose your assurances that you do actually know what you're doing will have to suffice."

It's on the tip of Clark's tongue to say thank you, but he holds it back. The Luthors are the ones who should express some gratitude, or an acknowledgement at the very least, that someone was willing to drop everything and hurry right over. "So what did you need me to do?"

Lionel jerks his head toward an interior door. "It's through there." Clark follows him into what looks like a dressing area, with a bedroom beyond it. "This."

Clark stares. "It's a closet."

"Very astute," Lionel tells him dryly. "This closet, as you so accurately describe it, needs remodeling.

Clark has had other people call up with harebrained notions of what constitutes an urgent job, but emergency closet remodeling is definitely a new one.

"O-kay," he says, putting on his patient voice. He's learned from experience that people panic when confronted with the hard realities of renovation, the need to actually describe what they want, in terms more precise than "bigger" or "prettier." It's best to ask questions gently, he's found. "Can you tell me more about how you'd like it remodeled? Maybe you're looking for shelves? Or drawers? Clothing rods?"

Apparently, though, Lionel Luthor is the sort who thinks the handyman should figure it out for himself. "I suppose my son can give you direction if you must have it. He's the one whose garment storage needs aren't being met."

He turns abruptly, goes out another door. Clark isn't sure at first whether he's supposed to follow or wait, and then he has to scramble to catch up. They pass along a side deck, up a flight of stairs, through another door, and finally out onto the aft deck. Clark has only ever seen Lex Luthor from a distance, from the back of a crowded room at a LuthorCorp press briefing, on the other side of the velvet rope, always through the prism of professional detachment. Back then, the younger Luthor struck him as a hard-nosed corporate competitor, remote and a little imperious, all business.

It's hard to remember why he thought that now, with Lex Luthor lounging lazy-limbed on a deck chair, as if he has no intention of doing anything else anytime soon. His eyes are shaded with dark glasses, his skin glistening in the sun, and he's wearing the skimpiest black swimsuit Clark has ever seen. In fact, it seems overly ambitious even to call it a swimsuit, such a tiny triangle of fabric, rendering imagination utterly obsolete.

"Who's your friend, Dad?" Lex asks indolently, as if it's almost too much effort.

Lionel Luthor gives his son an exaggerated look of forbearance. "Your carpenter."

Lex raises an eyebrow. "Really? Well, I'm pleased to see you're finally taking my apparel crisis seriously. That excuse for a closet you've saddled me with has been a disaster since we left Miami." He has the bored tone of someone with nothing more important to worry about, a far cry from the driven, no-nonsense man Clark remembers. "I am curious, though. Why this sudden concern for my comfort?"

"Son," his father says reprovingly, "you know your well-being always concerns me."

"Of course. How could I forget? When you're always so quick to remind me." He smiles, a telling tightness at the corners of his mouth.

"Let's not waste the carpenter's valuable time, son. He needs to get to work. You'll show him what you want done." He addresses Clark, "You have exactly twelve hours. If you expect to be paid, you'll bring the job in on schedule." He walks away, not waiting for an answer, apparently not even expecting one.

"Hey!" Clark calls after him. "I don't know the extent of the work! That might not be possible." He looks helplessly at Lex.

A faint smile twists his lips. "I'm afraid my father rarely cares what's reasonable. Well, then," he gets up languidly, "let's get you started."

Lex brushes past him, and Clark almost trips over his own tangled feet as he starts to follow. The swimsuit might be brief in front, but it's nonexistent in back, mere lines of fabric, showing off Lex's long legs, well-muscled thighs, his… Clark can't stop staring.

Since his parents died, it's as if all the lights have been turned out inside him, a walking ghost town, so numb sometimes he can barely feel the tools in his hands as he works. This sudden return to awareness takes him by surprise, a shock to the system, too much, too quickly, his heart pounding in the back of his throat. He doesn't know why it happens now, the gauze of grief giving way at last, everything sharp again, registering with uncomfortable intensity. It couldn't have come at a more inopportune moment.

Inside, Lex leads him to the closet, sweeps out his arm dramatically. "I think you can see the problem."

"I can?"

Lex frowns, as if Clark is being purposefully dim. "The shoes."

Indeed, there are more shoeboxes than Clark has ever seen in his life stacked up along the far wall.

"You have too many?" he ventures uncertainly.

Lex shoots him an exasperated look. "They're not properly displayed. I can't tell you how inconvenient that is."

Clark takes a deep breath and marshals on, "So…a shoe rack? That's what you're looking for."

"I'd say more of a shoe management system."

Clark goes over the words in his head, and they still don't make any sense. Then again, it's hard to focus when Lex is so near and so under-dressed, and Clark feels more than half-alive for the first time in so long. "I'm not sure what you--"

Lex waves his hand. "I'm sure you'll come up with something."

He walks away, and, God help him, Clark is half tempted to use his x-ray vision to keep on watching, even after the door closes. He takes a deep breath. According to Pete, this was bound to happen. Okay, maybe not exactly this way, but in principle. One day Clark would just snap out of it and start to feel more like his old self again. Trouble is, Clark never really believed him, and he certainly didn't expect it to come so suddenly, with no real warning.

He does his best to push all that aside and focus on work, his savior of the past fourteen months, but he just stares blankly at the closet, trying not very successfully to visualize what a shoe management system might look like. There's a clock hanging on the wall, made of something white and opalescent and pretty, but it's soft ticking makes his hands clench into fists, reminding him how time is slipping through his fingers. At last, he pulls out a sheet of paper and a pencil from his toolbox and starts to sketch.

Once he gets going, he remembers that he really does know how to do this, the panic recedes, and the ideas start to flow. He hits on a design that might work if he's lucky, draws a detailed plan, and calculates how much wood he'll need.

He shows himself out. On the foredeck, he finds a servant dressed in a white uniform polishing the brass fittings.

Clark clears his throat. "Excuse me?"

The man turns and regards him with a severe expression. There's an uncomfortable stiffness to him that reminds Clark of clothes with too much starch.

He smiles, trying to be friendly. "Hi, there. I'm doing some work for Mr. Luthor. If he's looking for me, could you tell him I had to go pick up supplies?"

The man doesn't actually come out and say he doubts either Mr. Luthor will care where he's gone, but his skeptical silence is fairly expressive.

"Thanks," Clark says in a deadpan. "I appreciate it."

Still, he can breathe again, and there's nothing that rich people or their people can do to dampen that. He gets back in his truck and tools along Old Jim Jarwell Road, whistling. He really thought he'd made an effort to get to know his new home, but with every passing block, there's something he never noticed before, red petunias planted in long rows outside the elementary school, the flag above the Veteran's Hall snapping briskly in the wind, drawings taped to the insides of the windows at the Happy Hearts Daycare Center, bright and primary, filled with the exuberance of children.

At the lumberyard, he says a hearty hello to the owner, Bart Bilson, and asks, "What do you have that will take the sea air? I'm doing some emergency closet remodeling on a yacht down at the marina."

Bart laughs, and they swap war stories. It occurs to Clark that he comes into this store at least a couple times a week, and this is the first time he's stopped to have an actual conversation. Grief is a living fortress, and Clark has missed out on the little things, the everyday give and take. It comes as rather a profound relief just to talk about the weather.

He picks out what he needs, pays, and Bart helps him load his truck. Back at the yacht, he makes patterns for the pieces he'll need and starts to cut them out. The starched servant comes in every so often, ostensibly to bring him a sandwich or something to drink, but the real purpose is painfully obvious. He wonders what they're afraid he'll do. Maybe take off with some of the prized shoes. The thought of it makes him laugh out loud, and the servant gives him a sharp look.

Clark's levity fades. "I, uh-- I just thought of something funny," he explains feebly.

The man stands up even straighter and turns on his heel.

Clark loses himself in his work, the glide of the saw, rhythmic striking of the hammer. The day grows hotter, and he throws off his shirt, starts to whistle again. He fits the pieces together and stops to survey the results, squinting critically, running his hand over the seams. Maybe his shoe management system will actually work, after all.

He doesn't try to overhear what's happening on deck--his parents raised him right--but the windows are open and the breeze is blowing in toward shore. There's really no avoiding it.

Lionel's voice booms into the cabin, "It's good to see you amusing yourself, son. I suppose playing the spoiled dilettante does have a certain entertainment value."

"I have no idea what you mean, Dad. And would you mind moving? You're blocking the sun."

"Lex, Lex," he says, in a cajoling tone, "let's stop playing these games, shall we? Just give me that tape, and we can cut this trip short. Go ashore, fly back to Metropolis. Get back to business, with you in your rightful place as my second in command."

"It's getting boring repeating myself, Dad." His voice is flat, disinterested. "What's the plan anyway? Keep me on this yacht until I mysteriously develop knowledge that I just don't have? We're going to be here a while then."

Clark goes perfectly still, old instincts springing to life. He creeps over to the window and hides in the curtains to look out.

"Son, you have to watch this paranoid thinking of yours. You're hardly a prisoner here. This is a pleasant family vacation to help you recuperate after your recent," his smile is cold-blooded, "sabbatical from reality, shall we call it?" He leans over Lex's chair, strokes his son's cheek with possessive fingers, and it makes Clark cringe, as if he were the one being touched. "I only want what's best for you, and I'd hate to see you end up back in Belle Reve after all you went through before."

Lex's hand clenches on the arm of his chair, his knuckles turning white. "Belle Reve would be more likely to make me forget what you want to know than remember it, don't you think, Dad?"

Lionel straightens up, goes still, head tilted. Clark instinctively jumps back from the window, making the curtains move.

"Your handyman is eavesdropping."

Lex laughs. "Don't worry. I'm sure he's no more interested in this conversation than I am."

"Have it your way, son. I have some business to take care of on shore. Anthony and Ivan will be here."

"To keep an eye on me."

Lionel sighs heavily. "For your protection."

"Good luck finding whatever it is you're looking for." It sounds decidedly like a dare.

There are footsteps on deck, and Clark stumbles over the thick-piled rug as he hurries back to the closet. He grabs his hammer and puts on a show of being hard at work. His thoughts won't stay focused on what he's doing, though. Questions take shape, lines of investigation. He can do a search on the computer when he gets home, piece together the back story. While he's here, he should sweep the place with his x-ray vision, listen in on the servants' conversations.

A voice in his head stops him before he gets totally carried away, "Honey, we're worried you're pushing yourself too hard. Call us. We miss you." It's the last thing his mother ever said to him, a message she left on his answering machine that he never got the chance to return.

Clark takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, remembrance like a lead weight. He doesn't get involved in other people's problems anymore, he reminds himself. He builds shoe management systems. He goes back to work, bringing the hammer down with extra force, the noise ringing in the confined space. If he's lucky, maybe it will drown out those ghosts of the past.

***

Late in the afternoon, Lex appears again, leaning against the doorframe of the closet like he's come to survey the progress, only he doesn't offer an opinion or ask the predictable questions, how it's going or when exactly are you planning to clean up this mess. He just watches, his eyes on Clark's back like something physical. It's unnerving, probably would be even if Clark's body hadn't picked today to rev back to life. He focuses all his attention on his sanding, testing the smoothness with his fingers the way a NASA engineer might check the space-worthiness of thermal tiles, like lives depend on it. Clark hopes if he ignores Lex long enough he'll lose interest and wander away. If he avoids his own curiosity with enough determination, it will cease to exist.

But Lex doesn't budge. If there's to be a battle of wills in his walk-in closet, apparently he has every intention of winning it.

Finally, Clark throws down his sandpaper and looks over his shoulder. "Am I in your way?"

Lex's mouth curves into the kind of smile that's meant to unsettle. "Not at all."

"Because I can move."

"I can reach what I need from here." He braces his hand on the wall and leans, and suddenly there's skin everywhere, points of interest where they are actually touching.

Lex pulls hangers from the rod and then the warmth is suddenly gone. Clark lets out a shaky breath, and Lex pads over to the bed and lays the clothes out on it. The dressing area and bedroom are two separate spaces in theory, but there's no real division, certainly no privacy. Clark is just about to offer to leave when Lex casually skims the swimsuit down his legs and moves over to the dresser.

Clark doesn't want to stare. As a teenager, he used to think, used to hope, the day would come when he was finally sophisticated enough that bodies wouldn't be so startling, and he could consider their potential without feeling so painfully clumsy and overeager. Maybe it will happen someday. Maybe that's what his thirties will be for.

Of course, that's no help to him now. Lex pulls underwear out of a drawer and turns around, and Clark nearly drops his hammer.

Lex raises an eyebrow. "Haven't seen one before?"

Clark opens his mouth, but if there is something clever to say when you've been caught staring at your employer's cock, it eludes him.

The good news is that Lex doesn't seem to expect an answer. "I wouldn't think there's much you haven't seen," he continues on, "given your line of work."

For one dizzying moment, Clark thinks he's referring to his days as the Angel of Metropolis. He rounds up his excuses, all the usual suspects, that wasn't me and haven't you heard the term urban legend and I have no idea what you're talking about. And then it finally dawns on him. Lex probably just found out he used to be a reporter and has drawn the obvious, if faulty, conclusion about what Clark is doing on his yacht.

Lex takes a step toward him, and then that explanation goes out the window too, "Aren't you going to mention how hot I am? Tell me you like my cock? Get down on your knees? That is what you're being paid for, isn't it?" He gives Clark a hard, flat smile. "I have to hand it to you. That eavesdropping routine was inspired. Was it your idea or my father's?"

For all Clark's experiences out on the streets, up close and personal with the grittier side of life, there's so much about people that he just doesn't get. He's probably never been more confused than he is right now.

"So what was the plan anyway?" Lex's voice is silky, insinuating, as he comes even closer. "A shot of sodium pentathol after you got me into bed? Or was my father simply banking on some indiscriminate pillow talk? Figuring I'd be so desperate for a little human contact that I'd spill everything to the first person willing to listen?"

Lex tilts his head, studying him, and it gives Clark a funny feeling in his stomach, that isn't anger or indignation or any of the other logical responses to being falsely accused.

"Dear old Dad must be pretty desperate himself to hire a male hooker to seduce me." He leans in, lowers his voice, like it's just between them. "My father isn't exactly an icon of tolerance. Where'd he find you anyway? I can't imagine a town like this has much of a red light district. Maybe the local pool hall? Is that where you hang out? With your shirt off," his gaze moves deliberately over Clark's chest, "bending over the pool table, drumming up business?"

Clark doesn't move, can't answer. The whole situation is just too crazy. That's all he'll allow himself to think about it.

"What's your name?" Lex shows sharp white teeth when he asks, looking at last like the man Clark remembers from Metropolis. "I like to know who I'm being hustled by. Call it a quirk."

Clark tells him, and it comes out a nervous squawk.

"Well, Clark, there's something you should know about my father." He takes Clark's hand and puts it on his hip. "He's a man who always gets his money's worth."

Clark is transfixed. His fingers look huge, clumsy, on Lex's paper-thin skin, like they don't belong there, but that doesn't make him want to pull away, far from it. The same fuzzy thought keeps looping though his head. He's naked. I'm touching him. And he's naked.

"Go on, Clark. Dazzle me with your professional expertise."

"Shelves," he blurts out at last, for lack of anything more coherent to say.

Lex's gaze snaps to his face, as sharp and hot as something with live current running through it. After a few seconds, he lets out a dry little laugh. "No, I don't suppose you could look like that if you weren't actually the local carpenter I've just mortally embarrassed."

The possibility that Lex might pull away, that the furnace going off in his body might shut down without any promise of warmth in the future, makes Clark frantic and grabby, his fingers digging in, leaving white points of pressure on Lex's skin.

Lex stares at Clark's hand, as if this is a possibility he hadn't anticipated. When he glances back up, his eyes are considerably warmer. "So what do you suggest we do about this situation? I could offer an apology. Or--"

Clark chooses what's behind door number two, and he's not the least bit suave about it, all over Lex in an instant, sticky fingers catching on bare skin, kissing blindly, all tongue and spit and no time to breathe.

Lex is used to less wild-eyed advances, surely, but he doesn't offer any complaint. That's enough encouragement, as far as Clark is concerned. He finds a place on Lex's neck and sets out to colonize it. Lex lets his head fall back, his moan a harsh rattle, making Clark want to do other things to him, exotic things, things he doesn't even have the vocabulary for.

When he feels hands pushing at his chest, it makes no sense, and he chooses just to ignore it. But Lex is insistent and manages to extricate himself from Clark's rather zealous embrace. He takes him by the hand. "Come on."

It seems like a bad idea, the worst, until Lex spills onto the bed and pulls Clark down on top of him.

"Oh," he says, momentarily stunned.

Lex smiles up at him, and that's the end of words, even the monosyllabic variety, for the time being.

Clark has never been particularly practiced at any of this, always a little too urgent and fumbling, and now he's an utter mess. He can't decide what to do first, and he jumps from one thing to the next, kissing Lex's mouth and tracing the muscles of his belly and laying his tongue on a nipple, in a frenzy of hunger.

Lex breathes heavily against his shoulder, works his hand between their bodies, and opens Clark's jeans. When he slides his hand into Clark's underwear, Clark goes absolutely rigid, mouth open, eyes wide, his expression frozen like he's in the throes of unbearable pain. The sensation is so raw that it does almost hurt, after feeling so much nothing for so long.

It's the kind of reaction to expect from an untutored boy, not a grown man, and Clark feels an apology bubbling up inside him, because that's easier to offer than an explanation. The way Lex is watching him stops him before he can say it, following Clark's every reaction so intently, nothing harsh or mocking in his eyes, nothing like disappointment, his face soft with fascination.

He runs his fingers through Clark's hair, presses a kiss to his jaw. "I should have known you weren't one of my father's."

Clark has seen enough of the war on the home front to know this means something--something good, approving. He takes Lex's face between his hands, and kisses and kisses him.

Lex whispers, his breath hot and unsteady against Clark's ear, "I want you to fuck me. I want you to fuck me so hard I actually feel it."

Clark has to stop for a moment, fist clenched in the bedspread, breathing violently. People say things like that during sex, he knows, but there's a ringing note of desolation beneath the urgency that's jarringly familiar.

He runs his thumb lightly along Lex's cheek. He'd like to offer him something--something more than a good, hard fuck--but sympathy is awkward at best between strangers. He settles for a smile and a kiss. "You know, you are hot."

Lex laughs freely, like he wasn't expecting to, and it's a good sound. Clark likes it. He kisses him harder, starts to move down his body, exploring with his tongue, the slope of his chest, dip of his navel, jut of his hip.

When he gets where he's going, he pillows his head on Lex's thigh, gazes up at him, smiling and serious. "And I do like your cock."

Lex sinks his fingers into Clark's hair, his expression stark, relentless. "Then why don't you show me?"

It's been long enough since Clark has had the weight of a cock on his tongue that there's a renewed sense of discovery to it, the heat and bitter salt and responsiveness, Lex's shaft jerking sharply with every touch. Clark closes his eyes, intent on enjoying it.

In hindsight, it seems obvious that he shouldn't have let himself get so caught up in the moment. That there are good reasons why grownup children and their parents don't normally live in such close proximity. It is a lesson he learned too well his first summer home from college. As a teenager, he'd thought nothing of taking opportunity where he found it, in bed late at night, tucked safely behind the locked bathroom door, indulging in a little self-appreciation. But after being away for the better part of a year, just the idea of his parents overhearing the creaking of his mattress springs or wondering why he was taking so long in the shower practically paralyzed him. He started stealing out to the loft to spend some quality time with himself, figuring he'd hear it if anyone came into the barn, a sad miscalculation. Only a last-minute dive behind the couch one fateful evening when his mother came to call him to dinner saved them both from being scarred for life.

That scene comes flashing back in much too vivid detail when Lionel Luthor strides into the room and surprise sends Clark tumbling over the side of the bed. For a moment, he considers just huddling there on the floor until...well, forever, but reality sets in, and he pokes his head up to see what's happening.

He finds Lex and his father engaged in a duel of silence, Lionel glaring, rigid with displeasure, Lex reclining with perfect nonchalance, not making the least effort to conceal anything.

"Could you come back later, Dad?" he says with a taunting little smile. "I'm in the middle of something."

Lionel's hand flies back, and Clark shoots up from beside the bed.

"Hey!" He takes a step toward Lionel for emphasis.

Lex's eyes fasten on him, warm with amusement, and just a hint of surprise.

Lionel fixes him with a sneer. "Playing the hero, are we? I don't suppose you've told my son what you actually do for a living. Why you're really here."

Clark darts a glance at Lex, and he wants to say something, to deny, explain, but Lionel beats him to it.

"Meet Clark Kent, investigative journalist, most recently of the Daily Planet."

"Not anymore!" Clark says in a rush. "I'm not--"

But Lex's face is already shuttered. He gets up, pulls on a robe, his back pointedly turned to Clark.

"This wasn't like that," Clark tells him softly, even though there's no indication that Lex is even listening.

"Oh, I think we know exactly what this was, Mr. Kent." Lionel presses an intercom button. "Anthony, Ivan, you're needed in my son's stateroom."

Clark holds up a hand in defeat. "You don't have to do that. I'm going."

He starts to move toward the closet, to pack up his stuff, but Lionel steps into his path, and then the hired help comes barreling through the door.

"Get rid of this," Lionel instructs them.

They grab him under the elbows, and the infuriating thing is, he could make person-sized holes in the side of the ship with them.

"Come on, guys," he tries reasoning instead, "at least let me get my tools."

They push him unceremoniously out onto the deck. He stumbles and lands on his knees. Lionel emerges from the cabin, toolbox swinging in his hand, a frosty smile on his face.

"You were concerned about these, I believe."

"Don't! Please!"

His plea is drowned out by the splash. Clark scrambles to his feet, just in time to see his toolbox swamped by a wave. Lionel nods to the security guards, and they pitch Clark over the rail, onto the dock.

Lionel gives the order, "Cast off!"

A horn sounds, the engine roars to life, hands come scrambling on deck to reel in the line, and then the yacht starts to pull out of the slip. In the cabin's doorway stands Lex, the white robe on pale skin making him seem almost like a ghost. Clark looks for an accusation in his expression, but it's impossible to decipher. Lex watches him blankly for a moment, then disappears back inside.

Clark doesn't budge from the spot until the yacht is long gone from sight.

***

When Clark gets home, the house smells like dust, a good strong whiff of it as he opens the door, days of accumulation. Okay, weeks, if he's being honest. He still has boxes stacked nearly to the ceiling in the living room, even after all these months, twine scattered here and there from the few things he has managed to unpack, a growing mountain of crumpled newspaper in one corner that desperately needs to be hauled to the recycling center. He heads for his desk, the one island of order in the midst of the chaos, to turn on a lamp, banging his shin on an old trunk he hasn't found a place for in the basement yet.

Every time Pete comes over, he just shakes his head. "This room is a serious window into your subconscious, man. You know that, right?"

Clark always catches a hint of something in Pete's voice when he says it, something that's not all joking, and he'd like to reassure him that his unsettled state is no reflection on Blue Cove, not some sign that he secretly doesn't want to be here. But that would mean admitting out loud that he can't feel at home anywhere right now, and it's bad enough just knowing that, without hearing himself say it.

He retreats to the comparative oasis of the kitchen, the one room that's in something like good shape. At least the dishes are out of boxes and in the cabinets--when they're not piled up in the sink, that is. He roots around in the fridge, pushing scary looking containers of who-knows-what out of the way, holding his nose, until he finds the last beer hidden behind some half-rotted bell peppers on the bottom shelf.

Beer is a habit he's picked up from Pete, something that has come to stand for relaxation, even if it has no physical effect on him. Clark drinks it standing at the sink, looking out the window. From here, he has a perfect view of the fields and the grapes vines in their neat rows, leaves glossy in the last, orchestral splash of daylight, stray tendrils floating on a gust of wind. There's something peaceful, almost innocent about them, and it makes Clark want to laugh at the deceptiveness of the picture.

Grape vines, in his limited experience, are an ongoing conspiracy of disaster. If it's not some kind of fungus it's an insect, if it's not mold spores it's an early frost. Clark worries about them the way he imagines normal people must worry about their children, constantly, with a sick feeling in his stomach. He's spent more evenings than he cares to remember pouring over pest management journals. Last week, he sat up five straight nights out in the fields, keeping the smudge pots going, nursing the vines through a dangerous cold spell.

Clark squeezes his eyes so tightly shut that all he sees is an after-image of the vines moving in the wind, carefree and strangely beautiful. He can go back to worrying about root rot tomorrow. He's already had a bad day.

The phone rings, and he pads over to pick it up, "Hey, Pete."

"Hey, man. I just ran into Bill Reid," Pete and the harbormaster are good friends, "and he said the Luthor yacht pulled out of port a whole day ahead of schedule."

Clark pinches the bridge of his nose, even though his headache is only metaphorical. There is nothing that goes on in this town that Pete doesn't hear about, and mostly Clark finds that amusing, except for times like this, when he's on the wrong end of the scuttlebutt.

"So what happened?" Pete wants to know. "Did their decorative emergency turn out not to be such a big deal?"

"Um, well--" He doesn't know how to tell the story and skirt the subject of the interrupted blowjob, which is surely more than Pete needs or wants to hear. "Let's just say there were some-- issues."

"Issues?"

He sighs. "They're Luthors, Pete."

"And?"

"They weren't too happy with the way things turned out. Let's just leave it at that."

"Did they at least pay you for the time you spent?"

Clark lets out a wry little laugh. "No, and Lionel Luthor threw my tools overboard."

"Man. Luthors are crazy. Haven't I always said that?"

"You always have."

"Well, don't worry about the tools. I've got some down at the plant you can borrow. Sorry I got you hooked up with those people. I really should have known better."

A picture flashes through his head, the look on Lex's face as the yacht pulled out toward sea. He closes his eyes. "I'm the one who should have known better, Pete. Believe me."

After they hang up, he's at loose ends, not hungry, not nearly time for bed, too restless to actually pay attention to anything. He wanders into the mess of his living room and half-heartedly digs through a box, old football trophies and a tangle of computer cables and keys to things he probably doesn't even own anymore. He has no idea what to do with any of it and manages to waste a lot of time getting absolutely nothing done. It's the same old problem, and eventually he just gives up, the way he always does.

Thoughts of Lex won't go away, and he checks the clock. It's getting late in Metropolis, but then, Chloe is practically nocturnal.

"Hey. It's me," he says when she picks up.

"Clark?" Her disbelief would probably be funny, if it didn't make him feel like such a jerk. "It's good to hear your voice. How are you?"

Memories of the time right after the accident flood back to him, people asking that question endlessly, and it gives him a sudden, unexpected shot of pain.

"I'm doing okay," he says, brushing past the subject. "How about you? Keeping out of trouble?"

"I wouldn't be doing my job if I were."

He smiles. "Some things never change."

"Clark Kent beating around the bush, for instance." Her tone is teasing, like old times, and that's strangely comforting.

He feels himself relax a little. "There is something I wanted to ask, now that you mention it."

"Let's hear it."

"What do you know about Lex Luthor's stint in Belle Reve? You covered it, didn't you?"

There's silence on the other end of the line, and Clark remembers just a beat too late that some of their more apocalyptic fights as teenagers came precisely because of moments like this, Clark treating Chloe like his "research monkey," her term for it.

"Um--" He tightens his grip on the phone. "I mean, if you wouldn't mind--"

"Wait," she says, unaccountably excited. "I'm booting up my computer to get a look at my notes. Try not to lose interest before the operating system loads."

He laughs. "I'm not that bad."

Chloe takes the diplomatic approach, not reminding him that he hasn't returned her calls or been interested in much of anything for the better part of a year. "Okay, here's what I've got on the younger Luthor's mysterious breakdown--"

Clark sits up a little straighter. "Wait. Mysterious?"

"I thought so, at least. People just don't develop paranoid delusions overnight. It's a gradual process. But in Lex Luthor's case, he went from high-powered businessman to drooling psychiatric patient in little more than a week."

"Do you think he could have been drugged?"

"I-- don't know," Chloe says hesitantly. "I can't say I never considered it, but his admitting psychiatrist is very well known in the field, widely respected. She's even published several books on medical ethics."

"People choose money over their own conscience all the time," Clark reminds her. "Did you try interviewing her?"

"Of course, I did," she says, slightly offended. "Didn't get anywhere with her, though. Doctor-patient confidentiality. But I guess I could check into her background, see if there's anything that would make her more susceptible to the Luthor family money."

Clark shakes his head in disgust. "Why would Lionel Luthor do that to his own son?"

Chloe lets out a little laugh. "Why does he ever do anything?"

"Money, of course. Power." The conversation he overheard on the yacht plays back in his head. "Self-protection."

"So the question is: what did Lex have on him?"

"Wouldn't I love to know?"

"Assuming, of course, that Lex was actually drugged and not simply the victim of a psychotic break. It'd be impossible to prove anything at this point. All the evidence is long gone." She sighs. "You know the last thing I want to do is discourage your renewed enthusiasm for reporting, Clark, but there's no story here. Not one you could ever publish at any rate."

"I don't care about that," he tells her. "I just want to get to the truth."

"You realize I am obligated to ask why you're so interested in this."

"Can't I just be curious?"

"In my experience? No."

He laughs. "Then how about you humor me just this once?"

"This once?" She sounds playfully put-upon. "Well, I suppose so. But don't get used to it."

He smiles. "I promise not to take your indulgence for granted."

There's a moment of silence, the kind that naturally falls in any conversation, but it comes at a particularly awkward moment, reminding Clark of things he really should have said already, things he owes her.

He clears his throat. "I just-- I want you to know. I never meant--"

"Clark," Chloe says firmly, "grief isn't an apology situation. I'm just glad you called me."

"Thanks, Chloe," he says softly.

"I'll let you know what I find out."

After they hang up, Clark sets out to do some research of his own, goes online, and tracks mentions of Lex Luthor in the press for the past year. Before the breakdown, or whatever happened to him, Lex's profile was definitely on the rise. He'd taken on considerable responsibility at LuthorCorp, in charge of their day-to-day operations, widely quoted in business publications, even gracing the cover of Fortune magazine. Reading between the lines, Clark finds hints of a possible takeover bid, or failing that, splitting off to start his own company.

Lex Luthor wanted out of his father's shadow. That much is clear.

His collapse, when it came, was a spectacle, painfully public, in a conference room full of board members, with threats and a brandished weapon. The pictures taken of Lex being led away make Clark's chest hurt; he looks so hollow-eyed and lost. Clark is probably the last person in the country to see them. The story was splashed over the front page of every major paper, including the Planet, for close to a week. News of Lex's release from Belle Reve after a three-month court-ordered stay was, predictably, buried at the bottom of a column on page twelve. Just the facts and a quote from his father, "I'm committed to doing everything possible to see that my son is whole and well again."

It makes good copy, but it doesn't gibe in the least with what Clark witnessed on the yacht, the menace in Lionel's voice when he threatened Lex with a return trip to Belle Reve. There's something not right about any of this. Clark is convinced of it.

His conviction grows when he gets an email from Chloe with her notes attached:

Here's everything I have. Looking back through it, something stands out that I never really noticed before. Several people close to Lex Luthor remembered him complaining of neck pain in the days leading up to the break. I'm not sure if it means anything, but I've got a contact, a chemist at a pharmaceutical company. Maybe he can tell me something.

Talk to you soon,

Chloe

P.S. I've missed being your research monkey! :)

It makes him laugh, and for the first time in a long time, that doesn't feel wrong.

He saves Chloe's notes to read in the morning and shuts down the computer. He kicks off his shoes, turns on the television, and stretches out on the couch. Night is the only time when he doesn't prefer the quiet, when he actually dreads it.

It's late by Blue Cove standards, and the only channel Clark gets is the family-owned station in town. They're showing a rerun of the Andy Griffith Show, and he closes his eyes and listens as Barney tries to explain how he lost his gun yet again. Afterwards, the Star Spangled Banner starts to play. Out here, TV still goes off the air in the wee hours. The last note dies out, and then there's the familiar buzz of the test pattern, the only lullaby that ever seems to work for Clark.

He lets out a tired sigh and falls sleep at last.

***

Clark wakes up to the preternaturally chipper voice of Ken Kinney--anchorman, reporter-at-large, general manager and co-owner of WBLC--doing the six a.m. news with even more gusto than usual, not the most pleasant way to greet the day, in Clark's opinion. He props himself up on one elbow and squints at the set to see what has the newsman all worked up. He has to close his eyes and open them again, extra wide, just to make sure it's really what he thinks it is, Lex Luthor looking much the worse for wear, dressed in oilskins, being pulled off a fishing boat.

"This was the scene just an hour ago," Ken Kinney says, unable to contain his excitement at the first real story Blue Cove has had since some teenagers discovered a nine-foot starfish while diving for oysters. "Fisherman aboard the Annabelle Claire got a little more than they bargained for when they reeled in the morning's catch. For more, let's go to Ben Kinney down on the docks."

Ken's twin brother, identical down to the comb-over and questionable taste in sport coats, is standing next to a sign that proudly proclaims "you catch 'em, we gut 'em," staring blankly ahead, microphone gripped in his hand like somebody might try to take it from him. When he finally realizes he's on air, he snaps to attention, his expression becoming almost comically serious.

"Well, Ken, it's been a morning of excitement down here at the Blue Cove Marina, after the crew of a Portuguese fishing trawler rescued a man, still unidentified, about three miles off shore."

"Is it true the man has no memory how he wound up at sea, Ben?"

Ben nods gravely. "That's right, Ken. According to Doc Hadley, the poor fella doesn't even know his own name."

Clark scrambles down to the end of the couch, closer to the television, so wide awake now every nerve feels jangled.

Ken nods to his producer. "Let's cue up that footage again, Christy. Give folks another look at our mystery man. Hopefully somebody out there will recognize him and come forward."

The scene plays once more, Lex being handed down from the boat, looking none too happy with the ham-fisted treatment of the fishermen, his face battered, some angry-looking scratches and a rather prominent bruise blooming on one cheek.

When he happens to glance down and notices his makeshift attire, a look of absolute horror crosses his face. "God help me."

They cut back to Ken in the studio. "Well, it appears he's a religious fella, if that helps jog anybody's memory out there. We've got a dedicated line all set up. If you recognize our John Doe, be sure and give us a call at the number on your screen."

Clark doesn't bother with the phone. He pulls on his boots and runs out the door. Doc Hadley's clinic is all the way on the other side of Old Jim Jarwell Road, and the 35 mph speed limit through town has never been more excruciating.

When he finally gets there, he finds what must be all of Blue Cove's police cruisers parked out front and clusters of curious onlookers milling around on the sidewalk. He leaves the truck on a side street and goes in the back way. He figures it's best to avoid the spotlight. He can just imagine the guilty picture he'd make in front of the camera, Ben Kinney asking him how he knows this John Doe, blushing memories of a thwarted blowjob zinging through Clark's head.

The clinic is a modest-sized building. Blue Cove is a one-doctor town, and probably lucky to have that. Emergency cases are taken by ambulance to Corvallis or by helicopter to Portland when it's really serious. Clark finds comfort in that. If Lex is still in Blue Cove, then he can't be in too bad shape.

Clark heads down the corridor toward the front desk and catches voices coming toward him, one of which he recognizes. There's just enough time to duck into a convenient supply closet before Sheriff Nelson, Doc Hadley and Lionel Luthor breeze past.

"The poor fella's pretty lucky, all things considered," he hears the sheriff say. "Who knows how long he was out in that water."

"But you say he has no memory?" Lionel asks.

Doc Hadley confirms it, "Shock of the water and trauma of the experience probably did it. Should clear up on its own. It'll just take some time. "

The doctor opens a door, and they all trail inside. Clark follows as quietly as he can, catching the door with his foot before it closes. He peers inside through a little sliver of an opening. There's an anteroom, and beyond that, an exam room with a large window, for patients who need observation. Clark sees Lex, sitting up in a hospital bed, wearing a blue gown, sheets pooled around his waist, picking at his breakfast tray, a sullen look on his face that is belied by his white-knuckled grip on the fork.

"What will happen if no one shows up to claim him?" Lionel asks in a tone so calculatingly disinterested it makes Clark want to throttle him.

"I don't rightly know," the sheriff glances over at Doc Hadley. "We can't just let him go off on his own, no idea who is and no way to take care of himself. The town's got a responsibility."

Doc Hadley gets a thoughtful look. "I suppose if worse comes to worse we can find a bed for him over at Sumter's nursing home. Not that it's really the place for him, but at least their staff could look after him until his memory comes back. Does this mean he's not your son, Mr. Luthor?"

Both the doctor and the sheriff have an expectant air that makes it's clear they have absolutely no idea who they're talking to. This is something Clark has noticed before about Blue Cove, that the people here have little to no interest in what happens back East, as if it's not even part of the same planet, much less the same country. They define "back East" pretty liberally, too. Kansas is as far off their radar as New York City.

Lionel shakes his head, and the sham heartsickness of the gesture is so convincing it's chilling. "Whoever that young man's family is, wherever they are, I hope they're reunited with him soon." His greeting card sentimentality hangs in the air the way a cloying scent might, and Clark feels more than a little nauseated by it.

"Well, I am sorry," Doc Hadley tells him. "I hope you find your son safe and sound."

Lionel nods gravely and shakes hands with both men.

The sheriff tells him, "We've got lots of curious folks outside. I'll walk you out, make sure you can get to your car."

Clark jumps away from the door and runs flat out back to the closet. He makes it inside not a second too soon, keeping the door open just a crack, watching as Lionel Luthor walks back down the long hall, feeling a rage that's piercing and personal. There is an absence in him, like a missing rib, left when his parents handed him over to the sterile embrace of a ship and the dark promise of space. Lex's face swims before his eyes, as lost and alone as that infant Clark once was on the other side of the universe. And Lionel has no excuse, no gift of life to justify abandoning his son. In fact, the whole situation begs the question: how did Lex end up in the water to begin with?

Once in the tenth grade, during some conversation, whatever fifteen year olds talk about, Clark can't remember anymore, Chloe said completely out of the blue, "Well, you know you're not much of a planner." Clark had gone hot with denial, reeling off examples where he'd been rife with forethought, until Chloe finally shrugged and threw him a mollifying "whatever." Now, he's a half-cocked testament to just how well she's always known him. Before he's even considered his options or spent a few seconds worrying over consequences, he throws open the door, hurries back down the hall and out the same way he came in, a runaway train on a mission.

By the time he jumps into his truck, a fuzzy to-do-list is taking shape in his head, piece by little piece, and he can only hope it will ultimately add up to a way to help Lex. He makes a stop at the Neptune's Daughters Thrift Shop and whirls through the place, making a mad grab for whatever men's clothes he can get his hands on, no time to stop and hold the stuff up and consider such niceties as size or style. In the back of his head is the fear that Lionel might change his mind, spirit Lex away for God-knows-what purpose, shadowy possibilities that are even more appalling than outright abandonment. He tosses a few stray knickknacks into his cart for some household window-dressing and heads to the checkout, startling the salesgirl with how eager he is to hand over his money.

At home, his momentum stalls a little as he looks around at the domestic wreckage he lives in and does the math and comes to the conclusion that there's no way to remedy six months' worth of paralysis in the fifteen or so minutes that he has. He tries to spruce up what he can and puts the clothes away, folding and hanging them with special care. As a finishing touch, he sets out his newly acquired thrift store bric-a-brac, the carnival glass candy dish and white porcelain elephant and matching tea towels with the sunflowers on them. His mental picture of married life, it occurs to him as he's arranging the items, is kind of like somebody's grandmother's.

That only leaves one thing, the hard thing that he's been putting off since he walked through the door, but he makes himself do it, go into the bedroom and open the bureau drawer. It's the one that used to stand in his parents' bedroom, tall and reassuring in its heft, handmade by his grandfather, with carved leaves that utterly fascinated him when he was a little boy. In the top left drawer, he keeps family artifacts he would never want to lose, that he can't bear to look at right now, smiling photographs and his parents' marriage license, diaries from when his mother was a teenager, his father's pocket watch handed down from his father and his father before him. And, what he's come to get, his parents' wedding rings in a black velvet pouch.

He gives himself a moment and then takes out his father's simple gold band and turns it over in his hand, the cool metal quickly warming in his palm. His dad used to say that when you lie you cheat everyone, including yourself. But then again, he also used to say that a man has a responsibility to defend those who can't defend themselves. Clark takes a shaky breath and slides the ring onto his finger. He likes--needs--to believe his father would approve of his intentions, if not his dubious methods.

He leaves in the same impatient whirlwind that he arrived. By the time he's driving past the Sip-and-Go, he's sketched out at least a rough outline of what he's going to say. He realizes that the biggest obstacle to actually getting away with this is...himself. It was always a point of contention between Lois and him, his skill, or lack thereof, at going undercover. "Smallville," she used to say, "you lie like I cook." Having once braved a plateful of Lois' French toast, he felt the full force of the insult.

The thing is, and he really hates to admit it, that Lois was right about him. No matter how much he ever psyches himself up, or how good the cause is, in the pressure of the moment his mouth just has the perverse habit of twisting itself into the truth. He thinks back on the multitude of unsolicited advice Lois was always giving him--"bastardize the facts, that's the most convincing way to lie" was one of her favorites--and he tries to channel her half-deranged chutzpah.

This time around at the clinic, he parks right out front and goes in through the main doors, putting a spark of desperation into his step, the scalded way a man might move if his better half had been plucked from the sea in a fishing net.

"Please," he says to the nurse behind the front desk. "Can you help me? I'm looking for my husband."

Her eyes go wide, instantly more alert. "Your husband, did you say? You mean the fella they brought in this morning?"

"Yes," Clark tells her, twisting his hands, showing off his ring, in what he hopes is a fairly convincing facsimile of worry. "That's him. Please, I need to see him."

The nurse nods in a reassuring way. "I'll let the doctor know you're here."

A scant moment later, both Doc Hadley and Sheriff Nelson come striding out to meet him.

"Is Al okay?" Clark says, the words jumbling together in a frantic rush. "How bad off is he? Can I see him?"

Doc Hadley holds up a hand. "Whoa there. Everything's going to be just fine. Let's calm down and get the facts straight, if we can."

The sheriff studies him over the tops of his glasses. "You're Pete Ross' friend, aren't you? The one from back East."

He extends his hand. "Clark Kent. I want to thank you, Sheriff, and you too, Doc Hadley, for looking out for my Al. I can't tell you how worried I was when I woke up and realized he was gone."

Sheriff Nelson looks confused. "I didn't realize you were married. Or--" He stops himself. "Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course."

Oregon voters might have passed the referendum allowing gay marriage, Clark understands from his reaction, but that doesn't mean they're ready to come face-to-face with the living proof of it. Don't judge people's biases, Smallville. Use them, he hears Lois saying in his head.

Clark smiles. "Al stayed behind to take care of things there. He just came out to join me a few days ago. And I've been promising him we'd go for a moonlight swim. You know," he leans in, his voice taking on a confidential tone, "to rekindle the romance a little."

The sheriff clears his throat and suddenly finds the steel toes of his boots utterly fascinating.

Clark breezes on, "Last night, though, I must have fallen asleep, and I guess Al went off on his own. I warned him about the currents, but would he listen?" He shakes his head. "I didn't even realize anything was wrong until I flipped on the TV this morning and saw him."

"Well." Doc Hadley claps his hands together. "Looks like we've got the answer to our mystery. Come on back, and you can see your husband. He's been a little restless, not too happy with the accommodations." He smiles wryly. "Our sheets have a thread count so low it's practically criminal, he's been telling us."

"He was right fussy about his water, too. Wouldn't drink it if it wasn't filtered. Your mister's kind of high maintenance, isn't he?" the sheriff says.

Clark smiles proudly. "That's my Al. He has his standards."

The doctor leads him down the hall to Lex's room, and Clark rushes inside and over to the bedside. The sheriff and doctor linger in the doorway, not wanting to intrude on a private moment. Or at least would be a private moment, if Clark had any actual connection to the man in the hospital bed.

Clark throws his arms around Lex. "Al! Thank God you're all right! I was so worried."

Lex fends him off with one hand and a look of alarm. "Who are you?"

Clark puts on his most stricken expression. "You really don't remember me?"

Lex frowns. "Am I supposed to?"

Clark turns to Doc Hadley and asks with a melodramatic stutter, "Is there brain damage?"

Lex makes a face. "Clearly. I'm just not the one who has it."

Doc Hadley chuckles, the way people do when married people bicker. "He has a slight concussion. A little rest, and he'll be good as new."

Lex presses his lips into a thin line. "That's confidential medical information you've just shared with a perfect stranger. I could sue, you realize."

The sheriff pipes up, "This is Clark Kent. He says he's your husband."

Lex pulls the sheet up to his shoulders. "I don't recognize him. How could he possibly be my husband? I don't even know that I would have a husband."

"Oh, I'm pretty sure--" The sheriff cuts short the observation in favor of a diplomatic cough.

Lex shoots him a dark look all the same.

Doc Hadley steps up to the bed. "In cases like this, it's not unusual that a patient can't recognize even close family members. Being in your own environment will be just the thing to help your memory kick back in."

Lex stares at him incredulously. "What are you saying? I'm just supposed to leave with this," he gives Clark the once-over, clearly unimpressed with his rumpled plaid and the morning cowlick he didn't have time to wrestle into submission, "person. What do you really know about him? What do any of us know? He could be some depraved serial killer. I could end up on television again and not just the local hick channel this time."

Sheriff Nelson tilts his head and studies Clark, "I don't know. He looks like a pretty decent fella to me."

Clark takes Lex's hand. "Now, Al. You may not remember me, but in your heart, you have to know I would never hurt you."

Lex snatches his hand away. "I don't know anything of the sort. I don't know you." He glares at Clark. "And stop calling me Al. That's not my name. It can't be. I don't feeling anything like an Al." He turns desperately to Doc Hadley. "What if he's some kind of pervert who has a thing for amnesia patients?"

Doc Hadley smiles gently. "I don't think there's much worry of that." His expression grows more serious, and he says to the sheriff, "He is right, though, Earl. We can't send him off with just anyone who claims him."

The sheriff nods. "We're going to need some kind of proof."

All eyes fasten on Clark. "Well..." An idea hits him, and he turns a little red as he blurts it out, "Al doesn't have any hair on his body, not even his--"

The sheriff raises an eyebrow, rather startled by the information. Lex scowls like he'd dearly love to kill someone and he can't decide which of them should be the first to go.

The doctor smiles with satisfaction. "Looks like we've got ourselves a reunion."

"I don't even know my name," Lex says plaintively.

"Remember? It's Al," Clark tells him patiently, speaking extra slowly.

Lex gives him a disgusted look. "My full name."

"Al--" He waves his hand in the air, trying to think of something, and unfortunately what comes out is, "Kent, of course. Al Kent."

Lex sneers. "So I changed my name when we got married? Am I the woman in our relationship?"

The sheriff makes a half-strangled noise of distress.

"Al Pacino-Kent," Clark amends himself. "We hyphenated.

Lex stares. "My family name is Pacino, and my parents named me Al?"

"They're-- fans," Clark offers lamely.

Lex folds his arms across his chest. "But apparently not very fond of children."

Clark looks to Doc Hadley, "Can he go home now?" He figures the fewer witnesses there are to his feeble powers of invention the better.

"I don't see any reason why not, but I'm going to give you a checklist of things to watch out for. If he starts having any symptoms, you be sure and bring him right back."

Lex says hotly, "I will not put on those garments--and I use that term loosely--that I had on when I came in. I refuse to smell like mackerel for rest of my life."

"We'll see what we can do," the doctor assures him. He presses the call button on the bed. "Myrna, can you find something for Mr. Pacino-Kent to wear home?"

Sheriff Nelson puts a hand on Clark's shoulder. "Let's go on out, and I'll sign over your husband's personal effects to you, not that there was much of it. But it's procedure."

Lex complains to Doc Hadley, "And could you please shut that blind while I'm getting dressed? I'd prefer not to be cheap entertainment for whoever just happens to stumble in here."

The sheriff shakes his head and laughs. "Your mister sure is a firecracker."

He leads Clark to Doc Hadley's office, makes him sign some forms and then hands him a see-through plastic bag with an expensive-looking pair of underwear in it, inconveniently monogrammed.

"Not to be nosy or nothin'," the sheriff squints at it, "but what's the 'LL' stand for?"

"Um--" Clark can feel a sheen of sweat break out on the back of his neck. "Well--" And then he smiles, remembering Lois' advice. "It's a little nickname I have for Al. You know, when we're--" He waves his hand in the air, a vague sort of innuendo.

It's enough to make the sheriff turn scarlet. "Oh, yes. I see."

Doc Hadley pokes his head in, and the sheriff seems pretty glad for the interruption. "Your husband is ready to go, Mr. Pacino-Kent, whenever you're finished up in here."

"Thanks," Clark tells him and asks the sheriff, "Is there anything else?"

The sheriff gives him an appraising look that lasts so long Clark is convinced his next words are going to be, "Did you really think you could get away with this?"

Instead, the sheriff surprises him, "You know, I don't take you for a man who would hit a loved one, but that bruise on your mister's cheek looks suspiciously like somebody's fist put it there. Now there's some lawmen that look the other way at things that, because what goes on between married people is their business. What you need to know about me is that I'm not one of those lawmen."

The look he gives Clark is so stern it's easy to imagine him using it on suspects, the confessions just tumbling out of them.

Clark holds the man's eye and assures him, "I didn't hit Al, and I wouldn't. Ever."

The sheriff studies him, taking his measure, and finally nods. "I believe that's true. Now, whether somebody else hit him or not is still a question. I'm going to keep my ears open, see if there's any talk going around about it. I'll be honest with you, Mr. Kent. I'm as old-fashioned as they come, and I don't necessarily understand some of these modern ideas like gay marriage. But I'm a strict law-and-order man, and there's not going to be any kind of bashing or such nonsense in my town. If I find out that's what happened to your husband, I'll get the people who did it, and I'll send them to jail. You have my word on that."

There's a forceful dignity behind the words that reminds Clark a little of his father, and it leaves a dull ache in his chest.

"Thank you," he says quietly.

The sheriff nods, solemn for a moment, then he breaks into a good-humored grin and claps Clark on the back. "Now you'd better go on out there and take you mister home before he has them redecorating the waiting room."

***

On the way home, Clark drives the way drunks and kids with brand new learner's permits do, hands locked on the wheel at ten and two, watching the road like it might suddenly get up and walk away, the sort of caution that does nothing to inspire confidence. Beside him, Lex--no, Al, he's got to start thinking of him that way--grips the door handle, as if braced for impact. Or perhaps it's simply a symptom of his continuing reservations about Clark, ready to leap from the truck at the first opportunity and make a wild break for freedom.

It doesn't help matters, Clark feels sure, that he keeps his truck much the same way he keeps house. Every time they go around a curve, Al dodges junk sliding across the seat with an air of offended dignity, and Clark really wishes he'd done something about those crumpled Whopper containers in the floorboard besides just think about throwing them away.

They're both quiet, too quiet, and it starts to feel unsettling. Al looks huddled and forlorn in the thin green scrubs they gave him to wear home. Clark switches on the heater, not that this is a cure for what's really wrong, but it's the best he can do. His brain plays leapfrog with various conversation-openers, the weather seems to be clearing up or they finally built that new mini mall they've been advertising or are you feeling any warmer yet. No matter how hard he tries, though, he can't latch onto any subject. His thoughts skitter away before he can get the words out, too distracted by the emotional funnel cloud swirling in his chest, alternately giddy and dumbfounded by terror.

Lex--Al--watches out the window, taking in the passing landmarks with flint-spark eyes, concentrating with such fierce attention Clark half expects the stores and houses to go up in flames. Al doesn't seem to mind the quiet; maybe he's even grateful for it.

The lack of anything to say gives Clark time to make lists in his head, pitfalls to avoid, props he forgot to buy, various contingency plans for an assortment of disasters. His biggest fear is that Lionel will try keeping tabs on his malicious handiwork, calling the clinic, or having someone on his payroll do it, in the guise of a concerned citizen, pumping the gossip-prone receptionist for information.

Clark has done what he can to thwart such surveillance attempts, asking the doctor to be non-committal to anyone who seems too curious.

"There are so many crazies out there," he'd said, with heartfelt conviction. What was crazier than abandoning your own child? "We don't want any trouble."

Doc Hadley had nodded and promised he'd instruct his staff simply to say, "We're doing everything we can for him." Clark can only hope Lionel will be satisfied with that.

He looks over at Al, who is slumped in his seat now, shoulders hunched, forehead pressed to the glass of the passenger-side window. Clark glances back at the road, then over at him again, frowning.

"Are you feeling okay?"

There's no answer, and panic spirals up Clark's spine, prickling at the back of his neck. He digs around in the pocket of his jeans and pulls out the doctor's list of symptoms, unfolds it with one hand and balances it on the steering wheel, reading while he drives.

"Do you have blurred vision? Ringing in your ears? Do you feel queasy?"

Al keeps on staring out the window. "I don't know this." They whiz past the brightly colored Taj Mahal Burger. "Or that." He shifts in his seat to glare at Clark, his eyes dark and accusatory. "I don't know this place. I've never seen it before in my life."

Clark gives him a mild, reassuring smile. "Well, Doc Hadley did say it would take some time for your memory to come back. And you have only lived here a few days. How familiar is it going to be?"

Al starts to say something, not a very pleasant something if the lightning flash going off in his eyes is any indication, but then he just presses his lips closed, like he doesn't want to waste the effort. Clark checks his mirrors, rear- and sideview, not once, or even twice, but three times, as if safety on the road will somehow carry over into more precarious parts of his life.

At home, he pulls into the yard, practically up to the door.

"I'm not an invalid, you know," Al informs him testily.

But Clark isn't taking any chances. "Just wait. I'll come around and get you."

Al suffers his mother-henning, but not without a look of reproach. They walk around the front of the truck, and Al stops, stares, staggers back a step. Clark feels sure it has more to do with the ramshackle surprise of the house, the dingy, flecking siding and precariously dangling roof tiles, than any actual failure of strength. All it needs is a good coat of paint, Clark's been saying that for six months now. Too bad he never actually did anything about it.

They go up on the porch, and Clark becomes uncomfortably conscious of the police envelope stuck into the waistband of his jeans, covered by his jacket, jabbing him in the side. It's pure superstition, he knows, but it just doesn't feel right bringing it into the house, a reminder of the truth, a jinx, for sure.

He tells Al, "Just one second."

He leaves him propped against the doorjamb, arms crossed impatiently, and goes back to the truck, crams the underwear behind the bench seat, to keep company with the caulk gun and the abandoned Pepsi cans.

"Okay," he says in a breezy voice, taking the porch steps two at a time, whipping out his key. "Welcome home."

Al steps inside and looks around, even graver and quieter than he was on the ride over. He wanders around the living room--as much as the stacks of boxes will allow--and trips over a rain gauge Clark has been meaning to carry out to the fields for weeks now. Clark just manages to catch him before he goes flying.

"I didn't have a chance to clean up before I left for the hospital," he says with some embarrassment.

Al's expression says "no shit" as clearly as any words.

"Have a look around," Clark encourages him in a bright, false voice. "See if it brings anything back."

It's the expected thing, what he'd say if this really were his husband, and he can only hope his well-intentioned fraud doesn't screw up Al's head more than the cold sea and a run in with a fishing trawler already have.

Al trails through the rooms, and Clark follows behind, trying to hang back and give him some space, although it's hard to rein in the impulse to hover. Al picks up one of the sunflower tea towels and puts it down again, his face an impassive blank.

"Are you hungry?" Clark moves to the refrigerator, mentally inventorying its contents, hoping there's something edible. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"Are we poor?" Lex wants to know.

"Well, we're not rich. But we do okay."

Al doesn't look particularly reassured. He meanders back into the living room, eyes moving from a stack of spare parts for the irrigation system to a leaning tower of old magazines. "Do we run a junkyard?"

Clark clears his throat. "Um, no. We're just a little behind on our unpacking. You must be tired. Why don't you sit down?" He pats the sofa cushion.

Lex looks down at the scrubs he's wearing. "I'd like to change." He narrows his eyes at Clark. "I do own clothes, don't I? We can afford that much, I hope."

"Sure, you do." Clark takes a step toward the bedroom. "I'll go get something for you."

"I can dress myself, thank you."

Clark's face goes hot, a memory from the day before, a tiny black swimsuit casually stripped off and tossed aside. Whatever heat he feels at the recollection is quickly chased away, though, as Al starts toward the bedroom and lurches unsteadily on his feet. Clark instinctively grabs for his elbow. He's rewarded with a withering look and hastily removes the offending hand. "Sorry."

If the living room is a cluttered wreck, the bedroom smacks of utter abandonment. The few pieces of furniture stand in dusty isolation, the mattress bare and unwelcoming, the same depressing feeling that empty dorm rooms and jail cells have, no pictures or rugs, just the bare bones of existence.

Clark goes straight to the dresser, avoiding Al's reaction, the dismay, the raised eyebrow. Such a forlorn-looking bedroom must make him question the state of their marriage.

"This is your side," he explains about the dresser, opening drawers, taking out an overwashed, graying pair of briefs, jeans, a sweatshirt that proudly proclaims "Graduate of Beer Drinker's University," not really the thing for Al Pacino-Kent, Clark realizes, but he's already committed himself to it.

He hands the clothes over, and Al stares coldly, until Clark finally gets it. "Oh, right. I should give you some privacy. I'll be," he waves his hand in the vague direction of the living room, "if you need me."

Clark paces the two feet of clear floor space while he waits and keeps an ear out for any hints of trouble, the alarming crash of a head-injured person passing out, the telltale slide of a bedroom window that signals he has a runaway husband on his hands.

Despite his vigilance, it still startles him when an imperious voice rings out, "Can you come here?"

He finds Al standing in front of the mirror, looking like a kid trying on his father's clothes. He demonstrates for Clark just how huge the thrift store pants are, pulling the waistband a good three inches away from his body. "Can you explain this?"

"Well--" He swallows hard. "You see--" And then those same feeble powers of invention that stuck him with Pacino-Kent for a surname come back to haunt him. "You used to have a gland condition."

"A gland condition?" Al repeats skeptically.

Clark nods. "But it cleared up, and now your clothes are kind of big on you."

Al widens his eyes incredulously. "Kind of?"

Clark catches sight of a stray piece of twine. "Here's a little trick you use." He runs the twine through the belt loops and ties it in a neat square knot. "There. That's better."

Al looks down at himself and back up at Clark. "Did I also have a brain tumor?"

Clark mumbles, "We've been meaning to get you some new things."

Al flounces off to the living room, clearly not pleased with the state of his so-called life, and Clark has to scramble ahead of him, scooting Chloe's notes under the couch with his foot to keep him from discovering them.

It's the couch from the loft, and Pete always wants to know why he didn't bring the one from the house. You know, the one people might actually want to sit on. It was a sentimental decision, Clark supposes, to have this reminder of his childhood in his living room. Of course, even back when Clark was in high school the thing had seen better days, and Al perches gingerly on the edge of it, like he's afraid he might catch something.

Clark brings him a pillow and blanket. "You really should try to get some rest."

Al gives him the kind of lock-jawed stare men must have used back in the days when they still challenged each other to duels, and then the phone rings, prematurely ending the standoff.

Pete's voice blares at him when he answers, "What's going on, man?"

"Um, well--"

Al is watching curiously, and Clark smiles, trying to convince him there's nothing wrong, despite the unmistakable shouting on the other end of the line.

"Do you realize that half a dozen people have come up to me in the last hour to say how glad they are that my friend found his husband? How lucky it is nothing worse happened than a bump on the head and some temporary amnesia. What a nice couple you and your imaginary better half make. And you know what I've had to do, Clark?"

"Um, no?"

"I've had to smile and nod and lie. Oh, yes. It is lucky. They are a great couple. I'm so glad everything's okay. Do you have any idea how much I hate that?"

Clark lets out a heavy, guilty sigh. "Sorry, Pete."

"What the hell are you doing, Clark? What are you thinking?"

He gives Al another determined smile and ducks into the kitchen, cupping his hand around the receiver, whispering, "I didn't plan it," then amends, "not at first."

"Man, he's a Luthor. Do you know how much trouble you're in right now?"

"I didn't have a choice!" Clark insists. "When I went down there to identify him, for real, you know who I saw? Lionel Luthor. And you know what he did? Denied knowing his own son. He was just going to leave him there. They were going to put him in an institution. I couldn't let that happen."

Pete is a silent a moment. "I thought you were finally finished with this hero business, man."

It's laced with bitterness, and it stings, but Clark says only, "I know it's a lot to ask, but, please--"

"I'm not going to out you," Pete tells him, with an exasperated huff. "But I really hope you know what you're doing. I mean, when he realizes--"

Clark glances into the next room. In the absence of any reason to resist, Al has settled onto the couch, his eyes closed, dark smudges beneath his eyes, looking exhausted now that he's finally at rest. "I know."

"Well, at least he can't actually kill you," Pete says with a forced little laugh.

Clark shakes his head, but he appreciates the effort. "Funny, Pete. Very, very funny."

Al sleeps for the better part of two hours, and when he wakes, Clark insists he needs food, whether he wants it or not. He roots around in the cabinets and the rather scary refrigerator and manages to come up with a makeshift lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches and pickles.

"We haven't really had a chance to go to the store lately," he says by way of an apology.

The sit and eat, and Al doesn't complain. Compared to hospital cuisine, apparently, Clark can hold his own as a cook.

When Al is done, he pushes his plate away and fixes Clark with a penetrating stare. "So how did we meet?"

Clark nearly chokes on his sweet gerkin. "Well-- I was doing some work for you, closet remodeling, and you kind of--"

Al leans forward. "What?"

"You came on to me."

He sits up very straight, his shoulders going stiff. "I did not."

Clark nods. "You did. And we kind of--"

There's a tinge of pink starting to burn in Al's cheeks, although Clark suspects it's more likely anger than embarrassment. "What? What did we do?"

"We had sex. Then I finished sanding. Things just kind of," he waves his hand in the air, "developed from there."

Al stares down at the table. "I had sex with the handy man who was building my closet."

"Remodeling. But yes. I got the feeling you kind of--" He makes a vaguely suggestive gesture with his hand. "You know."

"What?" Al demands.

"Got around."

"I got around." Al glares at him. "You mean I was a slut."

Clark pats his hand reassuringly. "I never thought that. No matter what anybody else ever said."

Al looks like he'd enjoy nothing more than slapping Clark, very hard, but instead he takes a deep breath and launches into a new line of inquiry, "So if we don't actually run a junk yard, what do we do for a living?"

Clark jerks his head in the direction of the window and the grapes vines beyond it. "That's ours."

Al squints. "We own a vineyard? And we live like this?"

"Well, that's really my fault. I've just been kind of," he lets out his breath and tells the truth, "lost these past six months."

The implied "without you" is pure invention, of course, but it's handy, nonetheless.

Al studies him closely and relents a little. "You could have at least unpacked the boxes."

He hangs his head. "I know. It's just-- trying to figure out where to put stuff-- Well, let's just say decorating has always been more your department."

Al nods, with a degree of certainty. "That I believe. Maybe we could start going through things. That might help me remember."

'Oh, sure. We could do that. After you've had a chance to--" Al gets briskly to his feet. "You mean right now?"

But he's already disappeared into the canyon of boxes.

They spend the rest of the afternoon bent over cardboard cartons, pulling out battered lamps and throw pillows. On the one hand, it gives them something to do that doesn't require a steady flow of conversation, which is a good thing, since talking just gets Clark into trouble. On the other hand, it does raise questions, as box after box is emptied, and there are no personal items that belong to Al.

"This can't be mine," he says, holding up a Gameboy with one of the buttons snapped off. "Mine wouldn't be broken." He frowns and adds, "I don't know how I know that. I just do."

Clark nods. "You're right. That's mine."

"And the 'Go Crows' pennant?"

"From high school. Also mine."

"The collection of half-chewed pencils?"

Clark makes a face. They are disgusting. "I've really got to break that habit."

Al asks, exasperated, "Is there anything that belongs to me?"

"Well, " Clark stutters, "you see, you kept a lot of your stuff back East. Six months is a long time to live in an empty apartment. You had it all shipped out right before you came. It should be here soon."

Just in time for a big fire at the shipping company's warehouse, Clark thinks, already plotting his future lies.

"There must be something here," Al says plaintively.

"Let's see..." Clark desperately glances around for something, anything, that will be remotely believable. "Wait. Here's something." He snatches up The Big Book of Baseball, with desperate relief. "This is yours."

Al stares at it disbelievingly. "I like baseball?"

"You love it." He nods emphatically, as if the sheer kinetic force of his head bob will convince him of it.

Al starts to flip through the pages. "The Rockets have built their pennant-winning dynasty on sound starting pitching and sharp defense," he reads. Then snorts. "Not to mention their 220 million dollar payroll." He goes perfectly still. "Wait. How do I know that?"

The answer, of course, is that his family owns the team, and there's probably nothing he doesn't know about it. Clark begins to panic that he may have strayed too close to the truth. Perhaps in another moment, Al--Lex--will throw down the book and get on the phone to his people and whisk himself out of this plebian world where he doesn't belong. If Clark were ever to experience anything like vertigo, now would be the time.

The phone rings, and he shoots to his feet, the loud, insistent chirping making every rib in his chest clench around his lungs, cutting off his breath. He leaves Al pondering his great love for the national pastime and goes to answer it. He hopes, for the first time in his life, that it's a telemarketer trying to sell him a year's supply of car wax.

"There's a waterfall! Lord help me! Come quick!" is shrieked in his ear the moment he picks up.

He squints, calculating which of his many over-excitable elderly customers it could be. "Mrs. Henderson?"

"Yes, yes!" she says, as if she can't imagine why he's bothering with formalities when she's in the middle of a plumbing catastrophe. "Please come, Clark. There's something terribly wrong with the downstairs bathroom. You haven't seen so much water since the Great Flood."

"Have you tried Bert Davis?"

"Oh, he's no use after ten o'clock in the morning." She lowers her voice. "A drinker, you know. You're such a good, reliable boy, Clark. I know you'll help me."

"It's just that it's kind of a bad time right now--"

"Oh, I know, dear. I saw it on the television. And then I heard who that poor boy is from Susie Manard down at the Food Mart. Bless your husband's heart! To be out in the water like that for so long. Thank heavens he's all right. I'm sure you've both had a terrible scare. He looks like such a nice young man, too. I said so to all the girls over at Dulcie's beauty parlor."

"Well, then I'm sure you can understand--"

"Of course, dear. Of course. You want to stay home and look after your husband. I guess it's not such a bad thing there's water standing on the laundry room floor. I'll make do somehow. At least my rattan chairs can float. I am a little worried about the cat, though," she trails off pitifully.

Clark sighs. "I'll be there in ten minutes."

Lex--Al--is still leafing through "his" book when Clark returns. He glances up questioningly, and Clark explains.

Al waves his hand in the air. "Go. I'll be fine. You can't leave a flooded old lady in the lurch."

Al's seeming eagerness to be rid of him makes Clark even more hesitant to leave. But he knows if he doesn't get right over there, he'll be treated to a flurry of panic-stricken, guilt-inducing phone calls. He sets the cordless phone on the coffee table and writes down Mrs. Henderson's number. He lays out the piece of paper with the list of symptoms and says, "If you have any of these, call me. Unless it's number eight. Then just call an ambulance. Okay?"

Al nods, but it's clear he isn't really listening. He holds up an insulated coffee mug with a Rockets logo on it. "Is this mine, too? "

Clark smiles. "Sure is."

The intensity in Al's face as he turns the mug over in his hands, studying it from every angle, this remnant of his past, or so he thinks, makes Clark's throat close up. He has to go quickly to keep himself from blurting out the truth, putting an end to the whole charade.

At Mrs. Henderson's, the problem turns out to be trickier than Clark was hoping, and it doesn't help his concentration that Mrs. Henderson talks pretty much nonstop as he's trying to work.

"I can't tell you how pleased I was to hear you're married, Clark. It's just not right for people to be alone in this world. Mr. Henderson, God rest his soul, and I were together fifty-three years. How long have you and your husband been married? Where'd you meet? At church, I hope. I always say the best marriages are the ones helped along by the Lord. Are planning on having children?"

Clark does his best to give her vague answers and desperately tries to keep track of what he's said. Lying is hard work. By the time he's finally finished with the repairs and the clean up, he's so antsy to get home he can barely stand still. But Mrs. Henderson won't hear of his leaving.

"Oh, no, dear, you can't go just yet. I've got a pot roast in the oven. I made it special for you boys, and it just has fifteen more minutes to go. Your husband can use some good food after everything he's been through. A man needs his sustenance. I always used to say that to Mr. Henderson."

Clark sighs in defeat and pulls out his phone. He lets it ring twenty-three times--he counts--without any answer.

"He's not picking up. I'm sorry, Mrs. Henderson. I really have to go."

"Pshaw. He's probably just in the bathroom. You young people in love are sweet, but you get all worked up about nothing."

It's an irony, really. Clark can bench press an Oldsmobile, but he's helpless at the hands of a ninety-pound old woman who looks like a strong breeze would knock her down.

He stands anxiously near the stove, feet in constant motion, like a racehorse desperate to break out of the starting gate. He hits redial every few seconds, with no luck, and each time his worry level ratchets up another notch. At last, the pot roast is ready to come out of the oven, but Mrs. Henderson has to find the lid and the oven mitts. The whole production takes an excruciatingly long time. He'd almost think she was dragging it out on purpose, except for that the fact that she's closing in on eighty, and "interminably slow" is the only gear she has left.

When she finally hands over the pot, he slurs out a rushed "thank you" and practically runs out the door, while Mrs. Henderson waves cheerily.

At home, he hurries inside, calling "Al," throwing down the roasting pan on the kitchen counter, going from room to room. There's no sign of him anywhere, and the house has the empty ring of nobody home. Finally, he thinks to check outside, throws open the back door, making it groan on its hinges, and bolts into the backyard.

Al is standing stock still by the back fence, staring out at the fields.

The silence in Al's posture is forceful, and it takes Clark a moment to work up to words. When he does speak, it's very quietly, "What are you doing? Are you all right?"

Al doesn't move. "I don't know this."

"You just have to give yourself time--"

He turns sharply. "I don't know this. Don't you think I'd feel something?"

It's snappish, impatient, but there's a mournful quality to it as well, and Clark understands at last. This is what sheer choking terror sounds like coming from Al Pacino-Kent.

He puts an arm around his shoulders and says very gently, "Come inside."

They eat dinner. The pot roast seems to cheer Al up a little, the way pot roast will. Afterwards, Clark does the dishes and excavates the foul-smelling ruins from the refrigerator before putting the leftovers away.

Al starts to yawn, and Clark tells him, "I'll go make up the bed for you."

He heads off to the bedroom and is embarrassed when he can't locate the sheets right away. After some digging in the closet, he finally finds them. "It's been less lonely sleeping on the couch," he tells Al. It seems like a reasonable explanation for the sorry state of the bedroom.

At once, he can see it was the wrong thing to say, because Al's expression closes up and he folds his arms defensively across his chest. Clark briefly considers ways to back out of the implication he didn't mean to give in the first place. Finally he just goes to work putting the clean sheets on the bed, figuring anything he'd say would only make it worse.

As he bends over to smooth out the wrinkles, he notices the truly alarming dust creatures--more ominous than mere bunnies--that have started growing under the furniture.

"I'll clean up in here tomorrow," he promises.

"Do I have pajamas?" Al asks, opening and closing drawers.

"Let me get them for you."

He pulls out a t-shirt and a pair of drawstring bottoms with cowboy hats and lassos on them. Al pads off to the bathroom to change, modest in his forgetfulness, and when he comes back, Clark is just turning down the covers for him.

The t-shirt hangs almost to his knees, and the pajama bottoms barely graze the tops of his ankles.

"They shrunk in the wash," Clark tells him.

Al yawns widely, eyes clenched tightly shut. For now, he doesn't seem to care.

"Go on," Clark urges him, nodding his head toward the bed.

Al slides between the sheets, back pressed warily against the headboard, and the moment turns awkward.

Clark pulls a blanket out of the closet. "I'll just--" He jerks his thumb toward the living room. "I don't want to keep you up with my insomnia."

A hint of gratitude flashes across Al's face for the first time in their brief marriage, and Clark tells him, "Goodnight."

It's far too early for Clark to fall asleep, but he doesn't want to keep Al up. So he flops onto the couch, stares up at the ceiling and listens. He can tell when Al finally drifts off, the restless stir of sheets going quiet. He glances longingly over at the television, and whatever slim hope he had for sleep peters out.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out and thoughts start to zing through his head. Do you know how much trouble you're in right now, Pete's voice rings in his ears.

It's a question he'd really prefer not to contemplate.