You Can Call Me Al
(Parts 7 - 10)

by Lenore

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

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


It takes less than a day of marriage for Clark to develop a bone-deep sympathy for the husbands he sees at the mall, the ones he's always kind of smiled about before, with their well-schooled "I'm listening" expressions, and their careful "whatever you think, honey" answers. Truly, capitulation can be the better part of valor.

His initiation into the fraternity of perpetually nodding husbands begins early the next morning. He wakes up at the usual ungodly hour and tiptoes around, trying to let Al sleep in, figuring he needs his rest. When he tries the bathroom door, though, it's locked, and a moment later, out comes Al, already showered, dressed in plaid pants and a shirt with piping around the pocket that he's apparently trying to be brave about.

"I couldn't find my toothbrush," Al informs him. "Do you have any idea where it is?"

"Um--" Of course he does, at the store, where he forgot to buy it. "Well--"

"I'm taking that as a no," Al cuts him off with a brisk air, as if he has things to do and no time to waste on Clark's stammering. "We'll need to pick one up when we go out today. Brushing your teeth with your finger is pretty much like not brushing at all."

"Sure--"

"And some soap, too. I used the last of it."

"Oh, okay--"

"We should also do something about that medicine cabinet. Of course, what it really needs is a sledgehammer taken to it, but I suppose I can settle for lining the shelves. That'll be something of an improvement, at least."

Clark nods. Al in a mood to accomplish things is an irresistible force. "Whatever you think."

He takes his turn in the bathroom and finds that showering without soap is pretty much like not showering at all. He gets dressed and cobbles together breakfast, eggs that he hopes aren't too far past their expiration date and toast he manages to singe around the crust even though he's trying really hard to keep an eye on it. He's fixed everybody's toaster in Blue Cove, it seems, except his own.

Al sniffs cautiously at his sunny-side-ups before digging in. "Don't forget we need to go to the grocery store." He bites into a piece of toast, grimacing as he gets a mouthful of char, and adds, "Maybe frozen food would be a good option for us."

"Faulty heating element," Clark mutters.

Al smiles faintly, as if to say, "a likely excuse."

They polish off their eggs, and Al leans back in his chair, giving Clark the speculative once-over. Clark braces for the next barrage of questions with a mix of curiosity and dread, but Al surprises him.

"I was thinking we could start working on the house. I assume that's what we were planning once I moved out here. And if this is my life," he casts a somewhat despairing glance around the room, "I need to make the best of it."

Clark unclenches, takes a deep, relieved breath. "Oh, sure. I mean, we can do that once you're up to it. For now, you should probably--"

'Nonsense." Al stands up from the table. "I feel perfectly fine."

"Don't you think we should at least call Doc Hadley, just to make sure--"

Al shoots him a flinty look, his mouth a hard line of determination, and that is pretty much the end of that discussion.

Clark reports for duty in the living room and is quickly cast in the role of hired hand, holding up pictures while Al stands at a distance, tapping his fingers on his chin and contemplating the effect, heaving furniture from point A to B to C, while Al directs him like an iron-fisted maestro with a "vision."

Of course, Clark could heave furniture all day and not even begin to feel it. The tedious part is remembering to strain and puff and struggle. Still, even a hired hand has his limits. When Al has him move the old trunk into every room in the house, even upstairs where the space is so empty it rings with nothingness, then finally settles on the exact spot where it was to begin with, in front of the couch, as a makeshift coffee table, Clark puts his hands on his hips and flashes him a look that's pure exasperation.

Al shrugs. "You have to try different things until you find what works," he informs Clark loftily.

One thing does become perfectly clear as they continue: the problem with the house hasn't been the house at all, but the homeowner. Clark has treated the place pretty much like a shack since he got there. Al, on the other hand, finds one fascinating architectural detail after another.

"This molding is really rather beautiful now that I look at it," he says, stopped beneath the arched entrance of the living room, perusing the plasterwork. "Light. Delicate. Late Victorian maybe. Do you know when the house dates to?"

"You mean, besides a long time ago?" Clark offers unhelpfully.

Al sighs, but doesn't let Clark's lack of appreciation deter him. "I'll do some research at the library. Or maybe there's a local historical society that might have some information."

He soon finds more treasures from the house's past: mahogany paneling beneath "this atrocious 1970's Ramada Inn wallpaper," built-in bookshelves that "just need the cheap white paint stripped off them," the possibility of a fireplace in the kitchen that "some philistine had the temerity to wall in."

Even the windows delight him. "Did you notice the original glass?" he points out, as they're washing them.

Clark tilts his head. "Is that why it's wavy? And has all those little bubbles in it?"

"It was blown by hand," Al says with far more excitement than wavy glass really deserves, at least in Clark's opinion. "It'll add a lot of value to the house."

"Really?" Clark scratches his head. "You don't think we should replace it? I mean, it is old and all--"

"It's not old," Al informs him. "It's antique."

This becomes a familiar refrain as the morning wears on.

Clark does have to admit, though, that the place is starting to look better. He leaves Al studying the living room, drawing a floor plan on a scrap of paper, and starts to carry things they don't need everyday up to the attic, just to get them out of the way. When he comes back down, he finds Al crouched in a corner, pulling at the carpet, on the trail of yet another discovery.

He motions to Clark. "Take a look at this."

Clark leans down to see. "Pretty bad, huh?"

Al gives him a look like he's crazy. "We've got the original floors under this chartreuse shag nightmare. See the wide planks, the distinctive grain, these marks." He points. "They're hand-planed." He pulls the carpet back even farther. "I don't see any damage, either. We'll have to take all the carpet up to be sure, of course. But if we get lucky, they'll just need some sanding and refinishing."

"Well…that's good," Clark says, a little uncertainly.

Al nods. "It is." His forehead wrinkles. "How do I know all this, anyway?" He looks to Clark, an eyebrow lifted in inquiry.

"Well," Clark says, "you just know a little bit about a lot of things."

"I do?"

Clark nods. "Sure. You're a very curious person." He figures that's a safe assumption about someone whose primary interest in business is research and development. And then he embellishes a little, "That's one of the first things I noticed about you, when I came to your place to do the work on the closet. You had all these books and magazines stacked everywhere, and I thought, here's somebody who really thinks about things. I should get to know him better."

Al takes in this little detail, mulling it over, a look of interest on his face. As they start to pull up the rest of the carpet, he peppers Clark with more questions.

"Is Al short for Allen?"

"Alex."

"Where was I born?"

"In Metropolis. That's why you're such a big Rockets fan."

"Did I go to college there?"

Clark nods. "Met U. Same as me. Although we weren't there at the same time. You're a few years older."

"How old?"

"Thirty-four."

"And how long have we been married?"

"Two years."

"Before I came out here, what did I do for a living?"

"Well--" Clark pretends to struggle with a stubborn staple while he frantically runs through options, coming up with nothing. "You've done a lot of things. You're really, you know, versatile."

"Can you be a little more specific?" Al persists.

"Well-- You worked for your father for a while. Not that it, um, really worked out too well." He gets to his feet. "Hey, why don't we carry this old carpet out to the porch, and I'll take it to the dump later?"

This distraction gives him all of a two-minute reprieve. On the way back inside, Al picks right up where he left off, "What was my major in college? Did I get good grades? Why didn't working for my father work out?"

"Um, well--"

"And another thing. We've emptied pretty much all the boxes, and I haven't seen any pictures or personal papers. No marriage license. Or wedding pictures. Snapshots from vacations. We do have such things, don't we?"

Clark claps his hands together. "You know what? We'd better get going if we're going to do that shopping. I'll look for our papers later. I promise."

"But--" Al starts to protest as Clark hustles him out the door.

"Just remind me."

There's a Target in the next town over, and on the way, Clark stops at the Taj Mahal Burger to get them lunch

Al regards the Rajah's Surprise that Clark orders for him rather dubiously, "You realize, of course, that Hindus don't eat beef." He glances around at the décor, at the fresco of elephants and palanquins, the willowy Indian princesses with the rubies in the middle of their foreheads. "Do you think this is supposed to be an ironic comment of some sort?"

"Could be," Clark tells him, just so he'll have some peace of mind.

It seems to work, because he eats his lunch, despite whatever hesitations he may have about its cultural appropriateness. Back in the truck, he writes out a shopping list on one of the pink napkins. He's just finishing up as they pull into the parking lot.

They head inside, and Al stops in his tracks, wrinkling his nose. "What is that?"

Clark takes a whiff. "Plastic. And lots of it."

He grabs a cart and pilots it, but Al is clearly the captain of their shopping expedition. He leads the way down various aisles, picking out toiletries, and then makes a beeline for the men's department.

He stops in front of a display of underwear. "Boxers or briefs?" he asks, half to himself, half to Clark.

"Well, you're kind of --"

"You're going to say versatile, aren't you?" Clark nods sheepishly, and Al just shakes his head. "Do you have any idea how unhelpful that is?"

He scans the labels of the various brands, although exactly what he's looking for Clark has no idea. Underwear is underwear, as far as he's concerned.

"How bad off are we anyway?" Al asks casually, as he checks the prices. "Is it this or food for the week?" Clark puts on his denial face, but Al waves him off. "I've seen the unopened bills. Don't try to tell me we don't have money problems."

"It's not dire," Clark insists. Under Al's pointed scrutiny, he adds, "Yet. Just get what you need. It'll be fine."

Al gives him a measuring look, as if deciding whether that's just pride talking, and then lays in a meager supply of underwear and socks. He wanders over to the racks of clothes, stops in front of a table of button-up shirts, lingers by the khakis, before dragging himself over to the Levi's.

"I should get something practical," he says half-heartedly. "Something farmy."

He glances over at Clark's battered, field-ready attire, and sighs as he pulls out a pair of jeans, the kind nobody wears without washing them at least a hundred times first, deep, inky indigo, so stiff they could stand up by themselves. He holds them up to himself and looks so pained that Clark has to go to the rescue.

"That's not really your style," he tells him. Truly an understatement when he thinks back to the sleek, impeccable man starring in the Planet's society pages. "I'm the jeans and t-shirt guy in the family. You go for a tidier look."

Relief flashes across Al's face as he throws down the jeans and returns to his rightful place amongst the oxfords. Clark has to turn away, to hide the grin he can't quite contain.

Al picks out a modest assortment of shirts and pants, and Clark asks him, "Do you want to try those on?"

He shakes his head. "This is my size." He lets out a frustrated sigh. "Why do I remember things like that and not my own name? Not my life?"

Clark touches his arm, the only reassurance he can give with a clear conscience. Every man has a limit on the amount of hypocrisy he can stomach, and telling Al he hopes he gets his memory back soon would far exceed his.

Al finishes up his clothes shopping with a belt and some shoes, and they follow the signs to the housewares department. Al checks out the bedding while Clark waits with the cart.

Finally, he points to a bed-in-a-bag ensemble. "What do you think?"

It's plain, a very pale, delicate blue, soft-looking fabric. "Soothing" is the word that comes to mind, and he says so.

Al's smile is quick and pleased. "I think so, too." He starts to pick it up, but then looks hesitant about it.

Clark takes it from him and puts it in the cart. "It's fifty percent off. We can't afford not to get it."

The happy glow in Al's face makes it doubly worth it.

Al ticks off the rest of the items on his list. Clark goes to get the soap himself, just to make sure they don't forget it. They breeze through the checkout and wheel their over-brimming cart out to the truck.

Back home, they heft everything inside, and Clark flops onto the couch. Five hours of shopping is enough to test even superhuman endurance. Al, on the other hand, seems to have more energy than ever. He stands in front of the coffee table, hands on his hips.

"What?" Clark asks.

"Weren't you going to clean up the bedroom?" Al taps his foot.

"Well, yeah, but--"

Al's expression remains relentless.

Clark sighs. "Okay. I'm going." He pulls himself to his feet and trudges off after the mop.

While he's making good on his promise, Al busies himself in the living room. When Clark returns, his mouth falls open at all the progress he's made. Al has transformed their sorry couch into a respectable looking piece of furniture with a cream-colored slipcover and patterned throw pillows. He's put down the small area rug they bought, deep red with a design like a Persian carpet, at least the Target version of it. He's even managed to hang the curtains. As a finishing touch, he's set out the simple red pottery style dish on the coffee table that he said would make the perfect accent piece and arranged a stack of Clark's less pest-control oriented magazines beside it, like actual civilized people have in their living rooms.

"It's hard to believe it's even the same place," Clark tells him.

Al surveys the room with a gleam in his eye that's part satisfaction, part ambition. "It's good for a start, at least."

They move on to the bedroom and tackle the curtains first. The ceilings are taller in here, and Clark breaks out the stepladder. He hangs a set of curtains, while Al works on putting hooks into the remaining panels. They're kind of fussy, and after fiddling with it for a while with no progress, he declares with disgust, "These have to be broken."

"I'll give it a try," Clark says, "after I finish with this."

"Fine," Al throws down the curtains, "if you think I'm incompetent. I'll just go do something else, something that doesn't require any actual skill." He stomps over to the shopping bags, takes out the new sheets and starts to rip open the packages.

Clark stares, completely puzzled. "What's wrong?"

"Why would anything be wrong?" Al snaps at him. "Just because you're treating me like an idiot."

He strips the bed almost viciously, as if he's half expecting it to fight back, and unfurls the new linens with a jerk of his wrist. He briefly rubs at his temple before starting to pull the corner of the fitted sheet over the mattress, but Clark doesn't miss the gesture.

He scrambles down from the ladder. "Why didn't you tell me your head was bothering you?"

"It's fine. Can you get this while I do these pillows--"

"Hey," Clark takes his arm, making him listen, "It's not fine. I need to know when you're in pain."

Al lets out his breath and grudgingly admits, "I have a slight headache. It's nothing."

"Maybe," Clark takes the pillow sham out of his hands, "but from where I'm standing? It looks more like something."

"Doc Hadley said to expect it," Al argues, sounding peevish and overtired, and Clark doesn't know why he didn't recognize the signs sooner.

"Yeah," he tells Al, "and Doc Hadley also said you should rest and take it easy. So let's just have some dinner, and relax, and you can turn in early."

Al lifts his chin, a definite challenge. "After we finish this."

"No." It's the first time he's said that all day, and he makes it clear that he means it. "You've already pushed yourself too hard."

Al grows plaintive. "I just want to finish in here. A few more minutes." He drops his eyes to the floor and says, like it costs him something to admit it, "I need to feel at home."

Clark feels the proverbial light go on. So that's what this has been about.

He tries to sound as reassuring as he can, "I promise we'll work on it tomorrow. We'll work on it as long as it takes, until you're satisfied. Just not any more tonight, okay?"

It takes a moment, but Al does nod, even if he's not exactly happy about it. Clark steers him out to the kitchen and makes him sit at the table while he warms up the pot roast. By the time dinner is over, Al can barely keep his eyes open, and he yawns a straight path to the sofa. Clark cleans up the dishes, and in just those few moments, Al has already fallen asleep. Clark covers him with the new throw, smiling softly, thinking it was a good thing Al decided they should get it.

He putters around, letting Al nap until it's time for bed, and then he approaches quietly, kneels down, watching with a fascination he wishes he didn't feel. It doesn't seem right, like he's taking advantage. Al looks so strangely peaceful, all his sharpness and complexity eased in sleep, and Clark hesitates to disturb that, so rare and so beautiful. He's considering whether he should just leave him there for the night when Al's eyes flutter open, sensing his presence. He frowns, his expression unfocused and confused, like he just lost himself all over again.

After a moment, he closes his eyes and mumbles "sorry," in a contrite, sleep-rough voice.

Clark pats him kindly on the shoulder. "You ready for bed?"

He nods and yawns, and Clark helps him to his feet. In the doorway to the bedroom, Al stops.

"You didn't have to," he says quietly, his gaze moving from the curtains to the bed neatly made with the new linens and bedspread to the bunch of wildflowers on the nightstand that Clark arranged the best he could.

"I'm not too good at this kind of thing. Anything you want to change, you go right ahead. It won't hurt my feelings."

"I think it's perfect." Al's voice is soft with sleep and surprise.

Clark smiles at him, and he'd like to do more, maybe squeeze Al's hand or touch his cheek, brush a kiss over his forehead, but those things belong to a husband, not to him.

"Goodnight," he says, like a consolation prize.

He turns, and Al's "thank you" whispers over him, making him smile again, soothing away the momentary ache.


There was a psych class Clark took his third year in college, mostly because he needed to fill a requirement and it fit his Fridays-free schedule, but there was the title too, "Mass Hysteria, Collective Wish-Fulfillment and Other Oddities of Small Town Life." With a background like his, a class like that was hard to resist. One week they'd learned about a rural town in Sweden in the 1940s where even the most prominent citizens claimed to have seen a veritable fleet of comic-book-style rockets streaking across the sky. Another week, they'd heard about a community in Massachusetts where the entire township was convinced a statue in the town square, of local hero Horace Chilton, could help cure impotence if a man went at midnight and rubbed Horace's head with his left hand, three times, in a counter-clockwise motion. Most of the other kids sat through the lectures with a quizzical smile, a skeptical set to their shoulders as they scribbled the obligatory notes. Clark listened open-mouthed, with a strong sense of déjà vu. The course could just as easily have been titled "The History of Smallville."

It gives Clark something of a context, at least--this is what he tells himself anyway--for understanding his own personal group delusion, the moments when Al's memory problems seem almost contagious. Like when Al picks up the thrift store elephant and asks where they got it, and Clark tells him it was a wedding gift from his great aunt Elizabeth, something they've laughed about ever since. Or when Al asks about the first time they ever went to a Rockets game together, and Clark explains it was a big match-up against archrival St. Louis. They had to wait in line all day for tickets, and then the weather turned bad, and they sat in the stands under an umbrella for three hours, waiting for the officials to call the game. These stories--these lies--have an unlikely weight, a texture in Clark's mind, like actual memories. It would be so easy to do his own forgetting, and he's not sure what this says about him, although he knows it can't be anything good.

There are moments, though, when the charade falters, good conscience or good sense making a stand, and he has to wrestle away forbidding pictures of the future with its inevitable consequences. Al never seems to notice these occasional bouts of preoccupation. He's too contentedly absorbed in the details of domesticity, paint chips and refinished chairs and welcome mats, as if their ordinariness will protect him against the creeping dark of the unknown. Whenever they finish a project--new tile in the kitchen, recaning the dining room chairs, installing the new fireplace mantel--he makes a point to catch Clark's eye, always with the same expression, telling and asking at the same time, See? This is the way it should be. This is good. Right. And Clark smiles, nods. Believes. This is good, and it is right. It's the way he's always wanted it to be, without ever realizing it.

There's no failing to understand what this means, that a stranger can fill in the blurry outline of home when he could never do it himself. Maybe it shouldn't come as the surprise it does. But for all his sorrow, he never actually thought of himself as lonely.

They spend their days working inside, all the while Clark keeps a nervous eye on the vines, as anxious about them as he is eager to make Al happy.

At last, he can't neglect them any longer. "I've got to get back outside," he tells Al on their fourth evening together. "Just make a list of things you need done around the house. I'll take care of what I can in the evenings."

"I think we're finished for now," Al says, casting a critical eye around the place. "There are a few more things I'd like to get. Some furniture for upstairs, but we can do that later. So what time should I set my clock for?" Clark's look of confusion makes him frown. "That is what I do, isn't it? Work out in the vineyard?"

"Well," Clark says slowly, "we never really figured that out. I grew up on a farm, but you're...more a city person."

For a second, there's a faraway look in Al's eye, as if the mere mention of the word brings back a vague and wistful longing for the forgotten pleasures of his former life, his real life, clubs and gallery openings, the view from a high-rise apartment, luxury in all its shiny variety.

He lets out a little sigh. "If this is how we make our living, then I need to do my share. I'll have to learn sometime."

"I guess," Clark agrees hesitantly. The list of things he'll eventually have to answer for just keeps getting dangerously longer.

The next morning, Al is still yawning as they trudge out to the barn, a good hour before sunrise.

"Here." Clark hands him a cap with a Blue Cove Farm Co-op logo emblazoned on it, somewhat battered from the many times he himself has worn it.

Al takes it reluctantly, holding it by the tips of his fingers. "What's this for? It's all of fifty degrees out."

"It'll get hotter later on. You'll need some protection."

Al inspects the cap, makes a face at the sweat stain along the bill, sniffs cautiously at the inside, wrinkling his nose. "I'll pass, thanks. So what do you want me to do?"

Clark goes through a mental to-do list, assessing the priorities, "I need to do some discing today. If you want, you can take care of the spraying. Has to be done every couple of days as we get new growth to keep away the mold."

"Whatever," Al says, with a shrug.

He's more dubious when Clark outfits him with the sprayer, a metal tank that fits over the shoulder with a strap like a sling, the nozzle long and thin and sinister-looking, the way things that mete out destruction usually are.

"If this…whatever this chemical is…does chromosomal damage, I will be holding you responsible," Al informs him.

Clark shows him how to use the pump, angle the wand, and then points out what to look for, the delicate spring-green of new shoots. Al handles the spray gun rather awkwardly at first, as if it's an artifact from another planet, which in a sense it is. Farm life is an alien world, for sure, for someone who was only recently the crowned prince of Metropolis. Al learns quickly, though, moving deliberately down the rows, showing the determined spark Clark has come to expect from him.

Clark gets out the tractor and starts his discing, keeping one eye on Al as he works. They make it through the morning without anyone losing an eye or a finger, success as far as Clark is concerned. At noon, they go in to lunch. Clark puts together sandwiches, and Al pulls the pickles out of the refrigerator, finds the chips in the cabinet. In Clark's mental day planner, he's penciled in Al for a few hours out in the fields in the morning, and then the rest of the afternoon inside, enough exertion for one day. When he shares this suggestion, however, Al has other ideas.

"But you're going back outside," he argues.

"I need to finish the discing."

"Then I'm coming too," Al declares, his chin raised at a stubborn angle.

Clark tries to talk sense into him the whole way out to the fields, but he just picks up the sprayer and walks off, leaving Clark talking to himself. At least Al relents and puts on the cap, the sun now at an aggressive angle in the sky, glowering down on them. He plods up and down the rows, inspecting each vine with a relentless eye, wielding the fungicide with such vicious determination it's a little alarming.

When he finishes, he flags Clark down on the tractor and wants to know, "What should I do now?"

Clark hesitates. "Well…there's compost that needs to be shoveled into the spreader. But it's hard work."

Al glares at him hotly. "I'm not feeble."

Clark sighs and gets down, leads Al around the side of the shed, outfits him with gloves, shows him what to do and leaves him to it. Every time he wheels around on the tractor for the return trip up the rows, he expects to find Al gone, disappeared into the house, given up on the menial tedium. Every time, though, Al is still hard at work, his back a bowed line, cords standing out in his arms as he chucks shovel-load after shovel-load of compost into the wagon. Clark just shakes his head.

He knocks off early, a good two hours of daylight still left. He figures he can finish up the last few rows in the morning, and he knows Al needs a break, whether he's willing to admit it or not. He puts away the tractor and goes to get Al. He doesn't look up at Clark's approach or break his rhythm--scoop, toss, scoop toss--not even when Clark clears his throat, trying to get his attention.

"You don't have anything to prove here," Clark tells him.

Al glances up, and the charged light in his eyes begs to differ.

"Come on inside," Clark says in the same even tone police negotiators must use, hoping to avert a standoff, "and I'll start supper. I'm getting hungry."

It takes a few more moments for Al to relinquish the shovel. "But I'm going to finish this in the morning," he insists.

They go in and part ways, Clark heading off to the kitchen to survey their options for dinner and Al to the bedroom to get cleaned up. Clark washes up at the sink and sifts through the contents of the refrigerator. They went food shopping the day before, and he feels fairly stymied by the unfamiliar sense of bounty. He's used to having a few takeout containers of questionable leftovers and, if he's lucky, a bottle of ketchup. An actual array of foodstuffs just confuses him. He goes to ask Al: burgers or tacos?

The bedroom door is half open, so he doesn't knock, just barges on in. He finds Al lying face down on the bed, arms and legs in floppy disarray like a rag doll that's been carelessly tossed, his eyes closed, his mouth a thin, strained line.

Clark ventures up to the bed. A weak slant of light is coming in through the window, playing off the curve of Al's head, which Clark can now see has turned an angry shade of pink. "Why didn't you tell me you were sunburned?"

Al doesn't open his eyes, doesn't answer.

Clark sighs heavily. He wonders briefly if this what was his mother's life was like, a never-ending attempt to reason with a mulish husband. "I'll go get something to put on it."

He's at the door when a sheepish voice calls out, "Can you get something for this, too?"

Al holds up his hands, covered in blisters, already starting to bleed.

A tug of war breaks out in Clark, concern battling utter exasperation. "Why didn't you just stop?"

"You'd think I was useless," Al says indignantly.

Clark shakes his head all the way to the bathroom and back. He pulls the chair over to the bed. "Let's take care of that sunburn first."

Al takes the bottle of aloe gel out of his hand, but when he reaches up to dab some on his scalp, he grimaces and lets his arm drop.

"Sore?" Clark asks.

Al's too proud to admit it, of course, but the off-kilter way he's holding his shoulders says everything.

"Here." Clark takes the bottle back. "Let me do this." He starts to smooth the cool salve over the seared skin, and then it hits him how strangely intimate this is. He hesitates, fingers hovering in the air. "Um, is this okay?"

Al nods, his eyes closed once more. "Feels good."

Clark finishes and moves on to the blisters.

"Fuck!" Al hisses at the spritz of anti-bacterial spray.

Clark blows on it, the way his mother used to do when he was a little boy and still felt the sting of things.

Al stares down at his battered palms. "How can this be my life? I'm not good at any of these things."

"It was just your first day," Clark reminds him.

"Please don't patronize me," Al says tiredly.

Clark takes a breath and lets it out. "Okay. Here's the truth. You're not good at any of these things because this isn't your life."

Al's gaze snaps up to meet Clark's, and Clark almost tells him then, all of it, who he really is, the situation with his father, that Clark only wants to protect him. Maybe he can convince him to stay. Maybe, together, they can figure out what to do. Maybe…

"What I mean is that having a farm was really my dream," he says quickly, unable to break the inertia of lies. "And you got swept up in it."

Al frowns. "So what does that mean exactly? I'm just dead weight around here?" His eyes fasten on Clark like the answer really matters.

"Of course not," he assures him, "You're just more...indoorsy. Better at the business end of things." He smiles. "The brains of the operation."

"I'm good with money?" Al asks curiously.

"Definitely." Clark wraps Al's hands with gauze and fastens the bandages with white first-aid tape.

"So I…what? Keep the books and manage our finances?"

"Sure do." Clark doubts this will be much of a challenge for someone who used to run his own multinational corporation. "How bad does your back hurt?"

"On a scale of one to ten?" Al scrunches up his forehead, considering. "I'd say about forty-five."

"I told you not to kill yourself," he says with a sigh, even as he's getting up to go find the liniment.

He comes back with it, and Al takes exception to the cow prominently displayed on the label. "If I don't get better, are you going to take me to the vet?"

Clark rolls his eyes. "Very funny. I'll have you know my father swore by this stuff for sore muscles. Now take off your shirt and lie down on your stomach and be quiet so I can work."

He kneels on the bed beside Al, applying himself to the knotted shoulders, but the angle is awkward, so he swings his leg over to straddle Al's body. He learned how to give back rubs, strangely enough, from Lois, who insisted it was his responsibility as her writing partner to keep her neck from getting stiff. It was just easier sometimes to give into her dictatorial edicts than spend valuable time and energy trying to fight them.

Clark pushes the heel of his hand into the coiled muscles of Al's back. He lets out a little moan, and Clark freezes, afraid he hasn't kept his strength carefully enough in check.

But then Al makes an insistent "don't stop" noise, and Clark smiles. He presses his thumbs into tight shoulder blades, and Al lets out a happy sigh. The smell of the liniment is minty and familiar, and a comforting wave of home washes over Clark. Al's skin is warm beneath his hands, the curve of his spine elegant and strangely vulnerable, and it fills Clark with a protective tenderness for him. He presses more lightly, skimming his fingers along the knobs of his spine, over the lines of his muscles, his touch becoming less therapeutic, more of a caress.

The realization of what he's doing jars him, and he abruptly pulls away. Al's eyes snap open, seek out his face, linger there.

"You're done," Clark tells him, trying to smile, the skin around his mouth pulling too tightly.

"Thank you," Al is still watching him, "that feels a lot better."

Clark gives an awkward nod, starts to untangle their bodies, but Al flips over onto his back before he can manage it, and then that's so far beyond awkward he doesn't even know what the right word is for it.

"I'd offer to return the favor, but..." Al holds up his bandaged hands, smiling ruefully.

Clark just shakes his head. His mind isn't much on words, hands hovering at the khaki waist of Al's pants, eyes fastened on the pale skin of Al's chest, his dark-penny nipples, the lean planes of his stomach.

Al stares up at him, considering. "You're a very kind man," he says at last.

Clark falls into his gaze, half panicking, an unaccountable feeling of helpless, as if he is the vulnerable one here. His hands, seemingly of their own accord, drift from the safety of fabric to the risky territory of skin, thumbs moving in slow circles, without plan or pretense. Al smiles softly, and for a long moment, Clark is suspended in that in-between place, where there is no clear decision, desire pulling in one direction, conscience in another.

Maybe if Al looked away, it would break the spell, but he doesn't, his gaze unwavering, weighted with curiosity. Clark closes his eyes, bends his head and presses a kiss, very softly, to Al's belly. Just the lightest brush of his lips, really, but there's a quiet in the room that feels significant, reverent, the only sound he can make out the violent rush of his own breathing. He feels Al's muscles quiver beneath his lips, and then he wants more, kisses again, open-mouthed, tasting him, and begins to move slowly up his body.

Al is breathing heavily now as well, his chest rising and falling beneath Clark's mouth. Clark stretches over him, balancing on his hands and knees, as if keeping their bodies from touching is some kind of compromise with the disapproving voice inside him. He silently damns that part of himself and presses his face to Al's neck, kisses him there, and along his jaw. He lifts his head, looks into Al's face for permission, and finds inky dark eyes riveted on him, the curiosity so intense it's like something physical.

The first kiss is light, exploratory. Eyes closed, but he can still feel Al's gaze, watching him as they kiss. He kisses him again and then again, a little more intensely each time. Al makes a soft noise of contentment. His hands come up, fingers sink into Clark's hair, the gauzy touch of bandages against his scalp. He frames Al's face in his hands, and Al eagerly returns the kiss, the brush of lashes against Clark's cheek as he closes his eyes.

It's easy to get lost, and Clark forgets to be careful, cupping Al's head, remembering a second too late, when he feels sticky gel on his fingers, that he shouldn't do that. Al sucks in his breath and flinches away from his touch. Clark pulls away so abruptly the momentum carries him off the bed, and he stands there, hovering awkwardly. "Sorry."

Al shakes his head. He looks up at Clark with that same, surprising expression, his eyes asking questions, making promises, his body relaxed, inviting. Clark doesn't know where all this has suddenly come from. Maybe Al believes having sex with his husband will help him remember his life. Clark really doesn't know what he's thinking. Can't even begin to guess. Because all his knowledge of this man is a fraud.

"I, uh," he runs a hand through his hair, still breathing too hard, "I came to ask what you'd like for dinner. Hamburgers, okay?"

Al nods, the intensity still there in his eyes, making Clark feel as if he can see right through him.

He can't stay still beneath that penetrating gaze, restlessly swinging his arms, nervously taping his foot. "I'm going to go--" He points in the vague direction of somewhere else and hightails it out of there before he changes his mind, loses touch with his better nature altogether.

He moves mechanically around the kitchen, trying to imagine what Al must be thinking. It has to seem strange, that Clark would start like that, only to stop so abruptly.

A few minutes later, Al joins him, dressed in a clean change of clothes. Clark pulls out the cutting board, bends his head, as if cutting a tomato takes all his attention, fighting back a wave of self-consciousness, of regret, if he's being completely honest with himself. Al doesn't say anything, just goes to the cabinet, and takes out the plates, sets the table. The scent of burgers sizzles in the air, and Clark digs a spatula out of the drawer, turns them over. He warms up a can of baked beans, and they sit down to dinner. It's so quiet as they begin to eat that the ticking of the clock from the living room seems to rattle off the kitchen walls.

When Al does finally speak, it makes Clark jump. "Do they ever visit?" Clark must look confused, because Al adds, "Your parents, I mean."

Clark shakes his head. He's not expecting the hurt look in Al's eyes, but there's no mistaking it, and then he realizes how that must have sounded.

"They died," he tells Al, eyes on his plate, his throat suddenly tight. It never gets any easier saying that. "Car accident. About a year and a half ago." He takes a deep breath. "That's why I needed to move here. Why it happened so quickly. I just couldn't--" He shakes his head.

"And that's why it's been so hard for you to unpack," Al says, as if it all makes sense now.

Clark doesn't look at him, can't bear to see what's in his eyes. "I guess."

"I'm sorry," Al says softly.

Clark swallows hard. "Thanks."

"Why did I let you come out here without me?" Al sounds confused. "It doesn't seem like a good time for you to be alone."

Clark braves a glance at him. "Couldn't be helped."

"Can I ask--" He stops himself, despite the obvious urgency in his voice.

"It's okay," Clark tells him. "What do you want to know?"

"My parents?" There's a mixture of hope and dread in his face that's almost painful to see.

Clark tells him the truth, as gently as he can, "Your mother died when you were young."

"And my father? I gather that we're estranged."

Clark nods. "He's-- not a very good man."

"Do I have any brothers or sisters?"

Clark shakes his head.

"So I'm alone," Al says grimly.

"No," Clark says with quiet emphasis. "You're not."

Al gets that look on his face again, the one that turns Clark inside out. Before he can decide if it's guilt or anticipation he's feeling, the live current running between them is interrupted by a knock at the door.

Clark goes to answer it and finds the sheriff standing on the porch.

"Evenin' there, Mr. Pacino-Kent."

"Um, hey, Sheriff." Clark's heart beats like it's trying to thud right out of his chest. A grainy home movie unspools in his head, the sheriff unmasking his lies, taking Al away from him.

There's an empty moment, when Clark should be inviting the sheriff inside, but he's too paralyzed by dread to use the good manners his mother taught him.

At last the sheriff asks, "Mind if I come in?"

That snaps him back to reality, and he practically jumps away from the door. "Of course. Please."

The sheriff steps inside, takes off his hat, glances around. "The place is really starting to shape up, isn't it?"

"I hope so," he joins the sheriff in surveying the room, "we've been working hard on it." He clears his throat. "So, what can I do for you?"

Sheriff Nelson shakes his head. "Just paying a courtesy visit. Wanted to see how your mister is getting along."

"He's seems to be doing pretty well--"

Almost on cue, Al comes out of the kitchen. "Clark, who is it--" He stops when he sees the sheriff. "Oh. Hello."

The sheriff nods in greeting. "Mr. Pacino-Kent." His eyes narrow as he takes in Al's worse-for-wear condition, the stiff way he's walking, the bandages on his hands.

Clark can only imagine what he must be thinking.

He gets all flustered as he tries to explain, "We were doing some work outside, and Al had kind of a hard day of it."

Al frowns, confused by the tension in the room. He steps in and plays the host, "We were just about to have some dessert, Sheriff. Why don't you join us?"

The sheriff holds up a hand. "I didn't mean to interrupt your dinner. Just wanted to stop by and see if you're doing all right."

"Thank you," Al tells him, "Except for not being able to remember a thing, I'm doing fine."

The sheriff nods, watching him very closely for a moment, and then he appears to relax. "Well, I'm glad to hear it, Mr. Pacino-Kent. I really am."

"Sure you won't change your mind about dessert?" Al asks.

Clark is finally recovered enough to chime in, "Yes, Sheriff. Join us."

Sheriff Nelson shakes his head, with a little smile. "I appreciate it. I really do. But I'm supposed to be watching my cholesterol. Doc Hadley was right stern about it. And my Flora can tell if I've been within three feet of sweets just by looking at me." He puts his hat back on and nods. "You all have a nice evening now."

When he's gone, Al asks Clark, "What was that all about?"

He starts to brush it off with a shrug, but Al gives him a pointed look, and he sighs. "I think he wanted to make sure I'm not beating you." He touches the faded bruise on Al's cheek. "I didn't. Do this. Just so you know." He moves his thumb in a light circle, although the prudent voice in his head is fairly shrieking at him to keep his hands to himself.

Al meets his gaze. "I know." Clark's brows knit together and Al shrugs. "I don't know how. I just do."

They have their ice cream in the living room--Chunky Monkey for Clark, Cherry Garcia for Al--sitting side-by-side on the sofa. They seem to have run low on things to say, the clinking of their spoons on the bowls the only break in the quiet, and it unnerves Clark enough that he finally suggests, "Want to catch the game?"

Al nods, and Clark flips on the set. It's Mariners - As, bottom of the fourth, and Al curls into the corner of the sofa to watch, his feet resting against Clark's thigh, something Clark tries not to pay too much attention to.

Fortunately, the game does its job distracting them, a good pitching match-up that pulls them into the action.

"Why do they keep swinging at the slider?" Clark asks at one point, to no one in particular. "They know they're not going to hit it."

Al snorts in disgust at an unsuccessful sacrifice bunt in the seventh. "That's just giving away outs, even when they don't screw it up." It seems to startle him at first that he has such a strong opinion on the subject, but then he redoubles his scowl at the screen, standing by it.

For a while, it seems as if the game may go into extra innings, but then the Mariners break out against the A's bullpen, and it's quickly over after that. Clark switches off the TV, and Al gets to his feet, yawning.

Clark doesn't budge from the sofa, awkwardness creeping over him again as two thoughts get tangled up in his head, Al and bed.

Al puts his hands on his hips, regarding Clark almost impatiently, a pretty clear indication he expects Clark to join him.

Clark smiles nervously. "Insomnia, remember?"

Al doesn't react for a moment, eyes fastened on Clark, and then he moves closer, leaning over him, bracing his hand on the cushion behind Clark's head. Clark is expecting an argument of some sort, quite possibly a loud one, so he jumps at the press of Al's lips against his. By the time he adjusts to the surprise, his hand coming up to touch Al's jaw, Al is already pulling away.

"Goodnight," he says.

Clark doesn't take his eyes off him as he walks the short distance to the bedroom. Insomnia might have been an excuse, but it was no lie. He's not going to be able to sleep at all tonight.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clark nods. "Four generations."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Al turns, face brightening. "You think?"

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

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

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

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

"Since I've known you."

"How did I learn?"

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

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

"It was more like a truck stop."

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

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

"He did?" Al asks, somewhat mollified.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I appreciate determination," Clark tells him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No! It just happened. I swear!"

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

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

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

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

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

"I'd describe it more as concerned."

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

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

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

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

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

"None other."

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

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

"Thanks, Chloe," he tells her gratefully.

"Just think about what I said, okay?"

He sighs. "Okay."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, yeah?"

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

"Well, yes," Clark says hesitantly.

"But?"

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

"Yeah, I've heard of that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't know what you--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clark stares stonily at the ground, his jaw clenched.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"So...your point is?"

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

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

"You know how possessive best friends can be."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Clark opens his eyes the next morning utterly disoriented. Part of it is simply that he slept deeply, profoundly, for the first time in years, and he's left with the same sense of displacement he imagines a time traveler would experience, waking up a veritable stranger in his own bed. The other part of it, of course, is Al, whose colonial aspirations are no less grandiose in sleep than they are in life. Clark finds himself thoroughly conquered, Al's dozing weight draped over him, one arm thrown across his chest in a blatant act of ownership. It takes a few seconds for Clark's sluggish brain to sift through all the sensory input, send the message that not only is Al lying on top of him, smelling wonderfully sleepy and familiar, but he's also hard, his erection pressed hotly against Clark's thigh. The realization cuts through Clark's mental fog with the efficiency of a blade, and the effect is physical and immediate.

There is a difference, though, between what passes for a good idea in the middle of the night and what seems okay in the brutal clarity of day, and Clark frantically calculates how he can get out from under Al and out of bed without waking him. He carefully pushes the covers back and starts to inch toward the edge of the mattress, but it's all in vain when Al's eyes snap open, gaze trained sharply on him, freezing him in place. Al props himself up on one elbow and studies him leisurely, and Clark wishes for what has to be the gazillioneth time in his life that he was a person who could talk himself out of situations. But just like all the previous occasions when he's had this fragile hope, no words come, and it's unlikely Al would listen anyway, not with such a single-minded expression on his face, like something chiseled in stone. He leans down in predatory fashion, cups Clark's jaw in his hand, and kisses him as if he has all the time in the world and doesn't plan to stop what he's doing anytime soon.

Nothing has ever been a foregone conclusion in Clark's life; even the laws of physics have proven negotiable. But from the very beginning, there has been a sense of inevitability to this, to Al--Lex--what Clark imagines gravity must feel like to everyone else, the pull so strong that you can't fight it, don't even bother to question it. There's something reassuringly normal about that, and maybe that's why he stops trying to deny it, brings his hands up to frame Al's face, kisses him back like he has no plans for any future beyond this moment.

Al makes a small, satisfied sound and stretches out on top of him, aggressive in his triumph. Clark runs a hand over his rumpled T-shirt, feeling the muscles beneath it, the heat of his skin. He tastes the sourness of sleep in Al's mouth, something he's surprised to realize is a new experience, no room for sleepovers in the alien crime-fighter's life. He finds it unaccountably intimate, and that sparks the need for more, for discovery. He moves his hand very slowly down Al's back, exploring, letting his hand come to rest on the firm curve of Al's ass, stroking him through the threadbare fabric of his pajamas.

Clark has a streak of the conqueror in him too, he's always known it, and he flips Al over onto his back, lies on him, letting Al feel him, his need. The scent of Al's arousal deepens, and his chest rises sharply, falls heavily, as if he is not averse to being an occupied territory. Clark smiles at that and lowers his head, lavishes kisses on Al's neck. Al tilts his head back, squeezes his eyes shut, and Clark likes that he likes it, almost too much. He lingers there, making Al moan, make him tremble. Al spreads his legs, shifts his body, rocks his hips, and Clark draws in a loud, urgent breath as their cocks rub together through damp fabric. He responds instinctively, hips moving in answer to Al's, face buried in the curve of his neck, breathing in warmth and sweat.

It's the tugging at the hem of his shirt that makes him pull away, just long enough for Al to get the T-shirt over his head.

The pink tip of Al's tongue peeks out from between his lips as he stares, hands moving in slow circles over Clark's chest. "You really have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?"

Their eyes meet, and Clark feels the heat rising in his cheeks. He's never much considered the matter, and no one else has ever said so, at least not like this, with such intense conviction, making the word mean so much. Clark kisses him again, slips his hands under his shirt, stroking his sides. There's a great sense of luxury in inevitability, and he takes his time, relishing every touch, every kiss, knowing that very soon he's going to have Al naked and under him, nothing to stop him.

Maybe it's this thought that jinxes him, that makes the phone ring, loudly, insistently, only a split second later.

Al tightens his arms around Clark's neck. "Don't answer it." He lays a flurry of kisses over Clark's chest as if to convince him.

Clark wants--tries--to ignore it, but it just won't stop ringing.

"It might be an emergency," he says between kisses.

Al's answer is to slip his hand into Clark's underwear. Clark goes rigidly still, biting his lip so hard that if he were anyone else he'd taste his own blood. Al moves his hand, and Clark starts to shake. The phone goes quiet, and all he can hear then is the dull roar of his own heart pounding in his ears. To his voodoo way of thinking, the message is clear enough, that this is right, no reason to deny himself.

Al strokes him more deliberately, and Clark digs his fingers into the sheets. Only the fact that Al picked them out keeps him from shredding them. He wants to come, and he wants this to go on a very long time, and he feels too good to care about the contradiction. He braces his arms and thrusts into Al's hand, and Al pushes his underwear down past his knees, staring and licking his lips, and that's so just unbearably hot that Clark has to clench his hands, squeeze his eyes closed. Because he's going to…

The phone blares, and Clark's eyes snap open, all the air forced out of his lungs. "Fuck!" he curses when he can draw a breath again and flops onto his back. Al makes a wildly frustrated noise that Clark empathizes with completely. He's going to kill whoever keeps calling. He turns on his side, kisses Al and promises, "I'll get rid of them."

He gets out of bed, strides out to the living room, yanks up the phone. "What?"

"Oh, Clark, there you are," Mrs. Henderson's voice flutters over the line. "I was beginning to think you weren't at home, dear."

Clark slowly lets out his breath, steeling himself to be patient. She's old, she's old, be nice, she's old. "Yeah, I was, uh, kind of in the middle of something."

"I won't keep you then, dear. I just wanted to make sure you and your husband were still planning on coming over for dinner tonight. I've been so looking forward to it."

Clark frowns. "Um, well--" It's difficult to think when all he wants is to get back to Al, and rather disconcerting to be talking to Mrs. Henderson when his body is in such a whipped-up frenzy. "You know, I really don't remember--"

"It was the last time you were over to the house, to fix the exhaust hose on the dryer." A problem that seemed suspiciously as if it had been caused by someone intentionally pulling it loose, Clark recalls. "I was asking how your husband was getting along, if he was ready for some company yet, and you said you'd both been rather busy around the farm, and I said overwork would be the worst thing for him, and the two of you had better come over for dinner, because some relaxation would do him a world of good, help him get his memory back lickety-split."

"But we never talked about a day--"

"Well, of course we did, Clark. We said your next free weekend, and here it is Friday already." Her voice takes on a plaintive quality, "I've been planning the menu for days. I do hope you can still make it."

He does his best to hold back an exasperated sigh. Since Mrs. Henderson first learned of Al's existence, she's been hell bent on getting a closer look at him, wheedling Clark at every opportunity to introduce them. Clark knows too well that his own pitiful will is no match for an old lady hot on the trail of a story she can share with the girls down at Dulcie's Beauty Parlor.

"I'll talk it over with Al," he says at last, just to get her off the phone.

"Wonderful! Let's say six o'clock, shall we?"

"But--"

"Tell your husband I look forward to meeting him." She hangs up cheerfully, before Clark can lodge a word of protest.

"Just great," he mutters to himself as he puts down the phone. He treads back to the bedroom and calls out to Al, "Um, we kind of got corralled into dinner--" He stops in his tracks.

Al has kicked the covers back, and he's stretched out languidly on his side, nude and aroused and waiting for Clark.

Clark tries to remember what he was saying, "Mrs. Henderson-- She does this guilt thing, and she's been dying to meet you and--" He stares.

Al doesn't take his eyes off Clark either, doesn't even seem to blink, everything about him an invitation.

Clark stutters, "I hope you don't mind. I said we'd come."

Al shrugs and smiles. "Whatever you want." He rubs his hand in a lazy circle next to him, the spot that belongs to Clark. "Come back to bed."

Clark takes a step toward him. He can almost convince himself that the sense of inevitability he felt before wasn't merely wishful thinking. Almost. The hitch is the way Al looks, so open and vulnerable, and Clark is a trick mirror, what you see isn't what you get. Suddenly he has Pete's voice in his head, Of course he's going to think he's supposed to have feelings for you, supposed to want to…

He goes to the bed and hastily pulls the blankets up to cover Al. "I've got that job over at the McCoy's today. I better get a move on."

Al's face freezes in surprise, and Clark doesn't wait for the anger to ignite in his eyes. He grabs his clothes off the back of the chair and flees. In the bathroom, he avoids the mirror, turning his face away as he closes the door. What the hell am I doing? The question pounds through his head, but he has no answer for it.

He mechanically strips off his clothes, turns the water up as hot as it will go and steps into the shower. Despite everything, he's still hard and takes care of it in a perfunctory way, not letting himself think about Al. He finishes cleaning up and gets dressed, takes a tentative step out of the bathroom. He hears thumping coming from the kitchen and finds Al making breakfast. He hovers by the center island, and when Al catches sight of him, his expression turns even more sour, as if he can tell with a mere glance what Clark was just doing in the shower.

"I, uh--" But there's nothing to say, no way to explain, not without resorting to the truth.

Al sets down a plate with an unhappy clatter, and it takes Clark a moment to realize that it's meant for him.

"Thanks," he says quietly as he sits down at the table.

Al doesn't say anything or even turn around. He stands at the sink drinking his coffee, staring out the window. Clark eats quickly and gets up to go.

"I'll, uh, see you later," he says awkwardly, hesitating at the door.

He doesn't really expect an answer, so it comes as a surprise when Al says, "Here." And hands him a brown paper bag. "I made you lunch." Clark looks down at the bag and up at Al, unable to hold back a lopsided smile, which makes Al scowl darkly. "Only because we need to stay on our budget."

Al crosses his arms over his chest as if daring Clark to believe otherwise. Clark nods very solemnly, but it just doesn't do any good. Pretending never does. He lays a hand lightly against Al's cheek and tells him, "I'm sorry." And kisses him. After a stubborn moment or two, Al relents, and Clark feels his fingers curl into his biceps, the soft touch of his tongue.

"Don't think this means you're off the hook," Al tells him after they've kissed a thorough goodbye, "because I still expect you to make it up to me."

Clark smiles and brushes his lips over Al's forehead. "I'll see you what I can do. Mrs. Henderson wants us there at six. I'll be home before then."

Al nods a little distractedly. "What do you think makes the proper hostess gift for a manipulative old busybody, anyway?"

It's clear that he's serious, and Clark laughs. He kisses him again and heads off to work feeling far more light-hearted than he possibly deserves.


Back to the homepage

I'm overboard for feedback.