Archive of Our Own

Suddenly he was awake, sitting straight up in his chair and grasping futilely at the open book on his chest. It slid through his fingers, though, landing on the carpet with a thud, and for a moment all Jason could do was simply stare down at it.

He didn't remember feeling anything remotely like tired, and it took another moment for him to recall how he'd even ended up sitting here.

He’d been writing and then. . .  

He turned to the clock on his desk and realized he'd been conked out for a good two hours. He then leaned over and picked up the book off the floor, carefully straightening the corners of a few pages that had bent.

The sound of a door being closed abruptly caught his attention, and since the noise came from just down the hall that meant—well, it'd probably been the main set of doors being opened that woke him up just a minute ago.

And what that really meant was that someone had just come home. It was a quarter past five as Jason stood up and reached over to set the book down on his desk. Just as he started to turn toward the door to the office, it opened.

They just looked at each other for a bit, and then Jason smiled, sadly.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," Clark said, his voice just as somber.

Jason bit the bullet. He asked, "How'd it– how'd it go today?"

Clark grimaced in response, and Jason mirrored it, nodding.

When Clark made no move to elaborate or even come closer, Jason asked, "Better or worse than we predicted?"

Jason was going to go out on a limb and guess worse.

Clark sighed, finally coming into the room. "Worse," he said.

Yep.

With Lex and his dad, it was always worse.

Clark, once he got started, had a tough time stopping moving. He fidgeted, paced, picked up and set down random things. Always came home with a collection of purloined objects in his pockets. Their household was more than set when it came to pens, paperclips, hairties, and even lighters.

Jason always figured it was all that pent up energy he was dying to use; he figured that was why Supes was so damn good at fucking multitasking.

Clark didn’t come over to Jason; he was probably still too antsy to accept any touch. Instead, he walked over to the bookshelves and, like clockwork, started futzing with Jason’s collection of knick knacks.

Jason had discovered, maybe three months into them all actually living together, that he really enjoyed mementos.

He’d never been allowed to hold onto anything before or decorate his own space. They’d moved around too much, and, his mom wasn’t the best about letting Jason—choose or make his own decisions.

She, uh, wasn’t great at a lot of things, namely being a decent human being.

Being able to pick out something, like a bowl made of petrified wood or a silly little carnival glass figurine, buy it, and bring it back to a home that he wasn’t going to have to leave abruptly in a week because of someone else’s whim was great.

So now Jason was kinda something of a pack rat. Sue him. Not like they didn’t have the space. Not like Lex didn’t fucking hoard his fair share.

Jason watched Clark and kept his distance, Clark, who had his back to Jason as he turned a tiny brass lantern over and over in his hands. He was all hunched in too, what Lex called ‘turtling posture.’

"Where is he now?" Jason asked.

"At the office," Clark said, voice low enough and quiet enough to be called a whisper.

“He there alone, or is Lanie with him?”

"Just security up there and at the front desk,” Clark said.

Jason frowned and crossed his arms.

Not good, and, what’s more, Clark was being a bit extra weird too.

So Jason went fishing. He asked, “He shout a lot? Throw some shit?”

Clark ‘turtled’ a bit more.

Jason was getting real worried now.

But then he guessed. . .

He asked, “He say something to you? Clark?” Jason dropped his arms and crossed over to Clark in four big steps. He went to reach out and touch him, but Clark spun away.

He sped over to the big windows, Jason’s lantern still clasped in one of his big paws, and only then did Clark say, "Told me I was a simple, soft-hearted idiot and he couldn't stand the sight of me. Threw a glass at me: hit me in the chest.”

Jason sucked in a huge breath, too big. He gave the game away.

He saw Clark smirk morbidly in the window’s reflection; yeah, Clark knew that was bad.

Clark hadn’t wanted to tell Jason. But he also hated lying. If Jason hadn’t pressed. . .

Lex had always had an awful temper, even as a kid, and he lashed out when he was upset, but it was usually just dramatic and showy. He slammed doors or threw his priceless collectibles or stomped off.

Sometimes he played the piano, angrily, or he blasted his metal rock especially loudly.

He never touched anyone.

He never threw anything at anyone.

He barely said anything when he was upset.

And he was still ridiculously careful around Clark. The years they’d been together hadn’t made Lex any less insecure about his place in Clark’s life.

He and Jason had had arguments even, shouting matches, about Lex refusing to call Clark on some of his more egregious bullshit.

“It’s habit,” Lex had said once, hours after one such fight. Clark had been gone a solid week, doing his hero thing, almost dying four or five times, as they later found out, and Lex had knocked on the door to Jason’s study. He’d come in and stood, much like Clark was now, in front of the windows. He’d told Jason, “I’m still terrified he’s going to run away again if I push too hard. I keep expecting to wake up back at—Belle Reve.”

Lex was upset now. Of course he was.

But Jason hadn’t ever seen him like this.

Clark had hinted he had, but he never said exactly how or why.

Jason tried approaching Clark again. He went to reach out and grab Clark’s shoulder, but Clark pulled away again, not so far this time, just barely out of reach.

But still.

Jason kept his arm up, his hand extended.

And he said, “I was an ass too, you remember.”

It worked. Clark looked up, glanced at Jason. He met his eyes for a second.
Clark was crying.

Of course he was.

“It’s different,” Clark whispered.

Jason still had his hand out, and he dared to move it toward Clark again.

Bingo.

When Jason made contact, Clark closed his eyes.

He seized his moment; he wrapped himself around Clark and dragged his head down to his shoulder. Jason said, as he squeezed Clark tight, “I know that rage, though, and that grief.”

“He hated him,” Clark said. “And he– he was– he treated him so bad.”

Jason almost laughed.

Clark, even with all the crap from his biological father, still couldn’t quite parse the complex and dysfunctional nature of certain parent-child relationships.

“And now that’s all he’ll ever know,” Jason whispered, still squeezing Clark, who was finally holding Jason in return. Jason could feel that metal lantern against his spine. He said, “That’s it. That’s the end of their story.”

“No reconciliation,” Clark whispered, his tears wet against Jason’s neck.

Jason realized he didn’t feel sad. He felt perversely glad, thankful even.

Lex was hurting, and Clark was hurting for him, but–

It was grief and resolution, and Lionel was finally fucking dead and gone, and one day, hopefully soon, Lex would feel as free as Jason did.

They just had to weather the storm.