Hi, everyone--I just joined not too long ago, but I haven't said much as I've read all your great stories. I've written a few myself, and have already sent one to the archives--where it will be coming up, hopefully, pretty soon--but I've finished another one and thought I'd (deep breath) put it up to see what you all think of it.

The premise: During 'Home Is Where The Hurt Is,' Jonathan thinks back on life with Clark and hopes to have more years yet to come.

**********

Souvenirs and mementos tastefully decorated Clark's apartment, tangible memories of the years he had spent searching the world for a place to belong. There was no rhyme or reason to them; a facsimile of a terracotta warrior--presently with a big red bow tied around its neck in the spirit of the season--was situated in a corner opposite the wall where a hand-woven rug from Australia hung over a few glass-blown figurines from Spain and a death-mask from Africa. The only thing that bound all the objects together was location and meaning.

Each item meant something to Clark.

Jonathan remembered the story Clark had told about finding a settlement of aborigines who had, upon discovering that he spoke their native tongue, accepted him into their lives and showed him how to weave the vibrant threads into tribal patterns. Clark had been forced to leave the friendly natives when a young boy began telling tales about how the American had floated him up and out of a well.

The terracotta warriors had fascinated Clark, and Jonathan felt a wistful smile shape his mouth as he remembered the excitement bubbling in Clark's eyes and the words spilling from his lips as he explained how he had been able to use his telescopic vision to see the individual strokes used by those who had fashioned the original statues. He had fled China when individuals in several towns had spoken enough about the miracles flowering through their region that a larger city's newspaper had ran the story.

The death-mask had been a gift from a Nigerian princess, who had urged Clark to flee before her people connected him to the 'spirit' that had pulled several warriors from the destruction of an earthquake. The figurines he had acquired shortly before leaving a step ahead of an investigation into the string of foiled muggings and rapes. The books from England he had bought and shipped to Smallville because he had been forced to book a plane he had no intention of boarding simply to evade the scrutiny of a newspaper intent on uncovering the story behind alleged 'guardian angel' sightings.

More odds and ends from Borneo, Bangkok, Bolivia, Saudi Arabia, and Italy adorned the shelves and walls all about Jonathan, and yet instead of connecting Clark to the world he had sworn to protect, they only served to further isolate him--proof that he could live in one place only briefly before his differences and his need to help endangered his anonymity.

Until, that is, Superman.

Superman had given Clark the chance to help as he felt morally compelled to do yet still retain the normal life he craved so much.

Jonathan frowned at the furnishings all around him, a bitter taste in his mouth.
Superman had also made his son a target for every villain in the world, a red and blue blur that might as well have been a bulls-eye.

'So, I guess this is what being sick feels like,' Clark had said in an attempt to ease the fear of the three people who knew him best--who knew all of him, or rather, *both* of him. It hadn't worked.

"Sick," Jonathan muttered, his eyes following Martha as she made her thirteenth trip to the door to look for Clark's arrival. "Clark never gets sick."

"He'll be all right," Martha assured them both, her voice too loud in the quiet, empty apartment--empty because it was devoid of purpose without Clark to give meaning to the mementos and belongings and furnishings.

"Of course," Jonathan said uselessly. Then, because he couldn't quite help himself, he muttered, "How long does it take to deliver a tree to the Coates Orphanage, anyway?"

A small smile graced Martha's lips. "Superman could probably do it in three seconds flat if he needed to."

Jonathan smiled back, taking her hand in his. "But we both know Clark will take longer. He'll give the kids a chance to exclaim over their superhero."

"And he'll make a plea for the orphans' futures," Martha added proudly. "And if he hears any cries for help, he'll answer them, of course."

"Martha..." Jonathan swallowed. "Martha, I don't think he's well enough to help anyone. I'm not saying that he won't try, but I've never seen him so weak, not even after..."

"After the Kryptonite," Martha bravely finished for him.

Unable to face remembering the times when he had seen his indomitable son felled by the lethal stone, Jonathan turned away. "Well, maybe there's something on the news about him."

He picked up the remote and flicked the power button, but inwardly he was praying that Superman's name wouldn't even be mentioned. The last thing Clark needed was news of his sickness flashed across every television screen in the world, informing the criminals that it was safe for them to come out and play.
There was a brief report that Superman had made his annual appearance at the orphanage, and then the newscasters moved on to more exciting stories. A part of Jonathan was relieved; the rest of him was consumed with worry for his son.

Though he continued to stare at the TV, he couldn't have said what else was shown. Martha paced and tidied and worried. She was filled with a nervous energy that Jonathan had grown familiar with over the years. Generally, his wife was vibrancy cloaked in gentleness and sharp wit; now, the cloak was slipping, as it did when her emotions got the best of her.

Not that his own emotions were much more controlled at this point, Jonathan admitted to himself as he stuck his hands in his back pockets to hide their trembling.

"Jonathan," Martha whispered, and he instantly turned to her. That note of weary longing was the cue he had been waiting for, the sign that it was now safe to pull her into his arms, to ground her restless flight with his solid embrace. He gave her no words--words had never been his forte--but he clasped her tightly to himself and gave comfort even as he partook of it.

"He'll be all right," he murmured into her hair, praying that the simple statement would become a fulfilled prophecy. "He's strong."

A scuffle outside the door made both the Kents freeze and turn their heads toward the noise in unconscious imitation of Clark's far-off listening pose.

"Jonathan! Martha! Help me!"

Martha was first to the door, but Jonathan was just behind her. He froze when he caught sight of Clark collapsed on the ground, Lois doing her best to support him, half-caught beneath his weight. With a gasp, Martha flew to Clark's side, her hand instantly going to his forehead, her eyes filled with tears.

"He made his speech and got out of sight, but then he collapsed," Lois hurriedly explained, her voice breaking with the tears she refused to let fall. "I got him into a cab and brought him here--don't worry, the driver thought he was a look-alike. I mean, what else was he supposed to think? Superman never gets sick. Anyway, I knew he wouldn't want anyone to see him, and I tried to get him inside, but he passed out, and now I can't get him to wake up or respond or look at me or--"

"Hush," Martha said soothingly, her hand on Lois's shoulder halting the brook that had so quickly sped past them. She said more, but Jonathan didn't listen to the reassuring words; he could only stare down at his son. What scared him the most was the fact that Clark was still dressed in the Superman Suit--if he had possessed even an iota of extra strength, Jonathan was sure Clark would have changed into his regular clothes. But he hadn't, and now he lay pale and sweating and unconscious just outside his apartment.

And, Jonathan asked himself, when they got him inside? What would they do? What *could* they do? None of them were doctors; none of them knew anything about Kryptonian physiology. How could they help him?

"Jonathan, help Lois get him inside," Martha directed. "I'll grab some cold water and washcloths--we can't let him get as hot as he was earlier."

Between them, Jonathan and Lois managed to wrestle Clark up the front steps, though the door, down through the living room, and into his bedroom. Jonathan would have preferred to lower Clark more gently onto his bed, but this was one instance where that dense molecular structure was more a liability than a blessing.

"My boy," Jonathan couldn't resist murmuring, a vise gripping his heart as he looked down on the son he had once thought he would never have. But looking down at Clark like this only served to dredge up memories of another terrible night in a darkened workshop in Smallville, Kansas.

"I'll help you get the water," Lois volunteered, as full of nervous energy as Jonathan's wife, both of them imbued with the need to *do*.

Jonathan was only dimly aware that they left the room. Tenderly, he lifted Clark's legs onto the bed and arranged his son in as comfortable a position as he could manage. He had, Jonathan realized suddenly, bought into the Superman myth Clark so decried. Somewhere along the way--maybe after seeing him emerge unscathed from falls out of his tree-house or painful misses with the sledgehammer or too long a time under the broken ice of their lake, or maybe after watching the news as his son raced into erupting volcanoes or held nuclear bombs as they exploded or tamed a tsunami by simple virtue of his own speed and ingenuity--whenever it had happened, Jonathan had started to believe that his son was just as invulnerable and unstoppable as the world believed him to be. He had forgotten that no one was completely invincible, and that just as his son's tender heart could be broken, so could his body be weakened and hurt.

"I'm sorry, Dad." Clark's voice was a pale shadow of his usual strength, his eyes glazed even as he did his best to meet his father's gaze.

"For what, son?" Jonathan dropped a hand to rest on Clark's shoulder, careful to keep the pressure light lest it worsen his already-labored breathing.

Clark clearly struggled to get the words out. "Well, you guys get sick all the time yet still manage to keep going. I should be stronger."

"If your mother heard you say that, she'd probably smack you," Jonathan said, his smile just as faded as Clark's voice. "You have nothing at all to apologize for, son, and don't ever think you do. You'll be all right."

How many times had they all said something similar to that statement, Jonathan wondered, and why didn't he believe it yet?

Clark's lips tried to curve upward, but he couldn't seem to summon the energy needed to complete the smile. "I love you, Dad," he murmured before sliding into a light, troubled doze.

The vise around Jonathan's heart squeezed even tighter. That had sounded too much like a goodbye.

When Martha bustled back into the room, her hands filled with a bowl of ice-water and several washcloths and Lois just behind her, Jonathan numbly moved back out of their way.

'So, I guess this is what being sick feels like.' Clark's words rang once more through Jonathan's mind. He only wished they did not sound more foreboding with each recollection.

*******
21 years ago...
*******

Jonathan closed the bedroom door softly behind him; Martha had just gotten to sleep, and he didn't want to risk waking her. The spoon clinked against the half-empty bowl in his hands, and he winced, only breathing out a sigh of relief when he didn't hear any stirring from within the bedroom. With soft steps--or at least as soft as he could make them--he made his way downstairs to deposit the dishes in the sink. It had taken a lot of coaxing, but he had finally managed to get Martha to try the chicken soup--made by Mrs. Irig, thankfully, not him.

"Daddy?"

Jonathan whirled away from the sink, his heart pounding a rapid tempo against his chest. "Clark! You startled me. Is everything all right?" His tone turned from jovial to concerned as he got a good look at the dejected, wilting boy hovering on the threshold of the kitchen. "Come here, son."

Tentatively, as if unsure of his welcome, the boy who had brought laughter and light and miracles back into Jonathan and Martha's life eased his way into the kitchen. When Jonathan held out a welcoming hand, Clark let out a relieved sigh and collapsed into his father's arms. Jonathan tucked him close, marveling once again at the feel of the child who called *him* Dad.

"What's wrong, Clark?" he asked softly. He tried to cover his grunt as he picked the boy up and set him in his lap. Even as a baby, Clark had always weighed more than he should have, an oddity his loving parents found all too easy to overlook in favor of the love they held for him.

Clark fisted a hand in Jonathan's shirt but kept his gaze fixed on his chest, as if he did not dare look into his eyes.

"Clark?" Jonathan prompted. Martha was so much better at these moments where intuitive understanding seemed to be a prerequisite, but Jonathan didn't think
Clark's despair could wait. "You can tell me anything," he added, a hint of uneasiness uncoiling in the pit of his stomach. An image of the ship, and the baby lying so tranquilly within it, flashed through Jonathan's mind.

Finally, Clark lifted his head and granted Jonathan a glimpse of misted-brown eyes under ebony brows drawn down with some dismal emotion. "Dad, what's wrong with Mom? Is she...is she going to..." The last of his question was uttered too softly for Jonathan to hear, but Clark looked up anxiously, awaiting the answer.

"You mother's sick with the flu, son." Jonathan frowned. "She'll be better in a day or two. Until then, she just needs rest and a bit of extra care."

Clark's expression lit up with an inner brilliance that took Jonathan's breath away and stirred that fierce protectiveness he hadn't even known he possessed until those strange government men had come asking their probing questions and looking suspiciously at the baby clutched protectively in Martha's arms. "You mean, she's not going to die?"

"Die?" Jonathan repeated, startled by the mere notion. "Of course not. It's just the flu."

"But...she barely ate anything--and she was crying in the bathroom this morning, I heard her."

Jonathan felt that flicker of uneasiness stirred once more from its wary slumber. Clark had been outside doing his chores when Martha had made her torturous trip to the bathroom, a *long* distance for him to have heard his mother's discomfort. Unconsciously, Jonathan's arms tightened around his son, holding him closer, shielding him from the world, and his own uneasiness, and whatever Clark's strange past would make of his future.

"Everyone gets sick, Clark," he explained awkwardly. "It's just the way things are. But, usually, they get better and are back to normal in a couple days. Your mother generally gets the flu about once or twice a year, sometimes less. It's not fun, but it's not fatal either."

"Why haven't I ever gotten sick?" Clark looked up at Jonathan expectantly, awaiting the answer he thought his father always had. How could he know that this time his dad didn't know what to say? How could Jonathan explain to this young, vulnerable boy that he didn't understand why the baby who had fallen from the sky never showed any pain while teething, never caught a cough or a sniffle, never missed school on account of the flu--and that they might never know the reason?

"Because you're special," Jonathan finally said thickly, looking down at Clark and wondering how anyone could love someone so much. He didn't care what happened to himself, or what the answers to their many subdued questions about Clark's origins were, or how many more moments of uneasiness he would have concerning his son's differences--he only knew that he would do anything and everything to keep Clark safe and happy.

"You're special," he repeated, "and I love you very, very much. Now, since your mom is sick and needs special care, what do you say you make her a nice card telling her how much you love her?"

Clark was instantly excited about the project, already slipping from Jonathan's lap to retrieve his beloved crayons and pencils. "I'll write her a really nice note," he promised, that lock of hair stubbornly flopping over his forehead as it always did. "And I'll draw her a picture. What do you think I should draw for her? Something that she loves more than anything else in the world!"

"You," Jonathan said with a fond smile. "Draw her a picture of you--that's what she loves most."

His small hand patted Jonathan's arm comfortingly. "I'll draw us *both*, Dad, because she loves you too. And I'll write and tell her how much we love her and are sorry that she's hurting and that we hope she gets better soon."

"She loves your notes." Jonathan shook his head, thinking of the stash Martha kept of every note Clark had ever written to her--and there had been a great many of them during the last four years. He still remembered the day Clark had walked into the kitchen and stunned his parents by announcing that he had learned to read since Martha had taught him to write the alphabet the day before. Jonathan knew he was a bit biased, but he thought Clark was incredibly intelligent and remarkably skilled, for an eight-year old child, at conveying his thoughts through the written word.

"Daddy?" Clark shyly looked up from his art supplies. "When I finish making the card, can I see Mom?"

Jonathan ruffled the boy's hair to hide the rush of warm tenderness engulfing him. "Of course, son. I think that will make her feel better all by itself."

"Really?" Clark smiled his beautiful, uplifting smile. "So, even if *I* don't get sick, I can help when other people do?"

"Of course, Clark. You can always help."

And when Clark finished his card and showed it to his father, Jonathan squelched his uneasiness at how striking the likenesses were and how fast the boy had drawn them, and he took Clark's hand and led him upstairs to pay Martha a visit.

*******

The air inside Clark's apartment was too still, weighted with fear, its silence unbroken by anything save the uncaring drone of the television. Martha was continually wringing out washcloths to set on Clark's brow in an attempt to bring his temperature down enough so that smoke didn't once more rise from his skin. She hadn't yet paused or hesitated in her self-appointed tasks, but Jonathan could see the terror that made her hands shake, and he marveled at the strength she possessed to keep her face fixed in an encouraging mask. He himself couldn't bring himself to move from the temporary paralysis that had taken hold of him and left him leaning against the wall.

"We have to do something." Lois stood with the announcement, her body crackling with barely-restrained impatience, her eyes dark with stress and fear.

"What *can* we do?" asked Martha--calmly, yet Jonathan could see the beginnings of desperation eating away at her mask.

"I don't know. But there must be something we can do, someone we can call. I know!" Lois halted her pacing, her entire countenance changing from manic despair to startled realization. Jonathan watched her in fascination as he suddenly understood a little more of Clark's fond explanations of his fiancee's rapid-fire thought processes. "Dr. Klein," she exclaimed. "I'll call Dr. Klein. No," she contradicted herself, shaking her head violently as she resumed her pacing, "I can't call him. There are too many witnesses at STARLabs, too many ways for the information to get out. Besides, Dr. Klein is somewhat absentminded--I don't know how well he can keep a secret. But then...who?" The last word was a frustrated, sad breath that fell from her lips and faded away almost before anyone could catch it.

When Clark stirred, Jonathan's breath caught in his throat. He waved the women to silence and bent over his son to hear the words he struggled so valiantly to shape. "I'll...be all...right. It's...just a flu. Don't...worry."

Martha's expression threatened to crumple. "Just a flu?" she repeated in a strangled tone. She shot a glance to Jonathan, both of them remembering their shock when Clark had dragged into Lois's apartment, slumped into a chair, and then...coughed. Clark never coughed. He never sneezed. And he most certainly never collapsed without being in the presence of a certain green stone that Jonathan hated with a passion.

"This isn't just a flu," Martha said firmly, Jonathan's hand on her back lending her voice a steadiness it had lacked a moment ago. "It must be a Kryptonian virus...but how would you have been exposed to it?

Clark didn't answer, his eyes moving restlessly behind their lids, his hair slicked to his brow. It was so strange to see him sweat, so terrible to see him weak, so wrong to see him hurting and not be able to help. Jonathan's knees threatened to give out, but he reminded himself to be strong for them all.

Martha turned to Lois. "Were you two in contact with anyone lately who might have wanted to kill Superman--anyone who could have somehow gotten their hands on this virus? I mean, if there--"

But Lois wasn't listening; her attention was riveted on the TV Jonathan hadn't had the heart to turn off lest the silence shatter him. He looked to the screen, suddenly nervous about whatever had caught Lois's attention--what if someone *had* caught a glimpse of Superman's collapse?--but all he saw was what was obviously an infomercial.

"That's it," Lois breathed. "He's very good at keeping secrets, trust me, and I know he can do it. He has to be able to."

"What--" Martha broke off when Sam Lane's image flashed onto the screen. He looked exactly as he had earlier when trying to convince Jonathan to invest in some ridiculous rubber lips.

"My father." Lois spun to face the Kents, her entire being glowing with renewed hope. "He's worked on anything and everything imaginable, I know, but he's also a licensed physician. If anyone can help Clark, it will be him."

Jonathan hated the necessity--wanted only to beg her to call whoever she thought could help his son--but he stepped forward with the habitual words of caution. "Lois, it's not that simple. No matter that the word means nothing to those of us who know him, Clark *is* an alien. His physiology is vastly different from our own. And if Sam does help him, he'll be here, monitoring him and...studying...him." Jonathan had to swallow down that fierce protectiveness and terrible accompanying fear before he could continue. "None of us will be able to reveal who Superman is to us. We'll have to be very careful not to slip up. And we'll have to have an excuse for why Clark isn't here, and why we are."

Somewhere in that speech, though he couldn't pinpoint exactly where, Jonathan realized that he had transitioned from a warning *against* asking Sam's help to advice about how to handle him while he *was* helping Clark. Still, he couldn't bring himself to regret the switch.

For a moment, Lois looked between Martha and Jonathan before her eyes slid inexorably back to Clark. "I understand that, and I'm not saying it's going to be easy. But if there's even the slightest chance that we can save him..." Instead of tears, her eyes were filled with a will of iron that refused to be bent or molded. "We have to take that chance. I know this has been your secret far longer than it has been mine, but...I can't bear to lose him."

"Oh, honey, neither can we." Martha enveloped Lois in a hug that Jonathan joined by virtue of a hand on his wife's back. "Please, call your father and ask him to come."

As if she were the one who possessed superspeed, Lois dashed from the bedroom to make a dive for the phone. A moment later, her voice spilled mingled words of command and plea into the apartment, obliterating the still, silent air and replacing it with hope and a chance for life.

"It'll be all right, Jonathan." Martha slid a comforting hand up Jonathan's shoulder. "He won't find out about Clark. He'll just think he's treating Superman."

"Who cares if he finds out?" Jonathan uttered hoarsely. "I just want our boy to be well."

His wife leaned her head against his broad chest, settling into his automatic embrace with the ease of long familiarity. She was careful to hide her face when she uttered her question, the words muffled: "He will be all right, won't he?"

"He will," Jonathan vowed, though he was immeasurably frightened by this sign of the depths of his wife's terror. "He's special, Martha--not because of where he's from or what he can do, but because he's our son. And he'll be okay. He will."

Locked in each other's arms, they stood vigil over their son and waited for Sam Lane to arrive with a miracle.