Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The afternoon light spilled through the barn slats in golden ribbons, catching on the dust motes that drifted lazily through the crisp autumn air. It smelled like the faint sweetness of a dozen pumpkins.

Clark’s sleeves were rolled up and an orange pumpkin sat on the workbench in front of him. He’d already cleaned it out in record time, and now his eyes glowed faintly red as he traced a heat-vision line around the stem with surgeon precision, the scent of lightly charred pumpkin rising in tendrils of steam.

“Show off,” Maggie said, hands on her hips, her own pumpkin looking like it had lost a fight with a dull knife. Stringy orange innards clung to her hands and splatter her clothes. 

Clark glanced up, unbothered grin in place. “You knew what you signed up for.”

“I was under the impression I was dating a farm boy,” she replied, wiping pumpkin guts off her wrist with exaggerated disgust. “Not a laser-eyed sculptor.”

“Multitasking,” he shrugged, carving a perfect traditional Jack-o-Lantern smile before she could finish. The lines were clean, flawless, and disgustingly symmetrical.

Maggie stared at it, then at her own creation: a crooked mouth, one eye bigger than the other, and a jagged top that leaned like a bad haircut. 

She looked up at him and deadpanned, “You’re insufferable.”

“I’m just better,” he corrected with mock dignity, straightening his shoulders.

She scooped up a handful of pumpkin innards and hurled them at him with surprising force.

Clark caught them midair without even looking up from picking up his second pumpkin. “Unfair!” she cried.

He raised an eyebrow, grinning wider until a dimple popped up on his cheek. “I’m better, remember?”

Before she could retort, he tossed the guts back at her — a perfect arc that should’ve landed squarely in her hair. But Maggie vanished in a blink, teleporting a few feet to the side. 

(Clark would never admit how much it bothered him that she could simply disappear away from him. He knew the joy her freedom brought her and he would never begrudge her that. . . But he didn’t like not knowing where she was sometimes.)

The pumpkin remains splattered harmlessly against the wall.

“Unfair!” Clark exclaimed, turning toward her with wide eyes.

Maggie flashed him a smug, pumpkin-smeared grin. “You knew what you signed up for, remember?”

That did it.

The next few minutes devolved into absolute chaos — orange goo flying, laughter echoing around the barn, hay scattering as Clark zipped from one end of the barn to the other trying to keep up with her blinking trail.

Each time she disappeared, his jaw clenched a little tighter. Each time he nearly caught her, her heart raced with something beyond exhilaration.

Maggie blipped onto a hay bale, flinging another handful down at him, but he was already behind her in a blur, catching her wrist mid-throw. His grip was gentle but just a touch too firm.

“Truce?” he said breathlessly, eyes dancing.

“Never.” She flung the rest of the pumpkin in his face before teleporting again, leaving him grasping at empty air.

Clark sputtered, then laughed, the kind of sound that came from deep in his chest, rich and unrestrained. He scooped up a double handful of guts, aimed for where she was about to reappear—

—and missed completely.

Something soft and wet splatted against skin that was not Maggie’s.

All three of them froze.

Jonathan Kent stood by the tractor, blinking through the dripping mess now coating his face and flannel. A pumpkin seed clung stubbornly to one eyebrow.

Clark’s stomach dropped. Maggie’s eyes went round. Neither moved other than to look at each other in horror. 

Jonathan spat a seed from his mouth, expression unreadable. Then with deliberate calm, he wiped his hand down his face, flicked the goo to the sawdust floor, and stood.

“Oh no,” Maggie whispered, fighting the urge to teleport away completely.

Without a word, Jonathan dipped both hands into the nearest pumpkin and came up absolutely dripping in guts and seeds. Clark barely had time to say, “Dad, wait—” before his father smeared both handfuls across Clark and Maggie’s faces in one swift, decisive motion.

The barn went silent for half a heartbeat. Clark and Maggie stood blinking, faces sticky and dripping, and then they both burst out laughing.

When the laughter finally ebbed, Clark reached for her hand. “Truce?” he asked again, quieter this time.

Maggie linked her fingers with his, goo squelching between their joined fingers, still grinning. “For now.”

They left the barn together as the sun sank lower, pumpkins tucked under their arms. Their pumpkin-smeared arms brushed as they walked, leaving sticky trails of contact. Clark leaned down, brushing a kiss across her temple, pumpkin seeds be damned.

When she looked up, his eyes were soft, the kind of warmth that made the air feel still.

That look said everything — this is home.

+++

Darkness settled over the Kent farm, the last streaks of daylight fading behind the farmhouse windows. Inside, the kitchen glowed with golden light. There were pumpkin-shaped paper lanterns flickering on the sill, the air was thick with the rich warmth of cinnamon, clove, and the sharp sweetness of cider. 

Maggie padded in from the hallway wearing one of Clark’s old flannels, red and black with frayed cuffs that swallowed her. She’d kicked him out of his room with a firm “five minutes” before slamming the door in his face.

Now she strolled back in looking entirely too pleased with herself.

Clark turned from where he was stacking plates, crossing his arms with mock offense. Maggie locked eyes with him and gave a deliberate, slow twirl, the oversized shirt riding up her jean-clad thighs as she spun, flaunting her latest conquest.

He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve already got, what, two drawers full of my stuff at your apartment? And, like, half my closet of your stuff here.”

(A closet that had gradually become less his and more theirs.)

“That’s called commitment,” she brushed so close reaching past him that the fabric of the shirt grazed his arm as she snatched a cookie from the counter. Her eyes never left his. “Sweetheart.”

Martha, at the stove, smiled as she stirred the pot of cider. “You two sound like an old married couple,” she said fondly.

Clark flushed but grinned, his eyes never left Maggie, who met his gaze without flinching.

When Martha turned back to the stove, Clark leaned closer and breathed against her ear, “You know, you could’ve just asked. I’d give you anything.”

“I know.” Her smirk was dangerous as she pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth. "But it looks better when stolen.”

He gave her a look that was part exasperation, part dopey love. “You’re impossible.”

“You knew what you signed up for,” she shot back sweetly.

Before he could reply, Martha called over her shoulder, “Clark, can you warm the cider a little more?”

“Sure, Mom.” Clark stepped forward, eyes glowing faintly red for half a second. A moment later, the cider erupted into a violent boil, steam billowing upward in a cloud that hit the ceiling.

“Clark!” Martha spun around, half-laughing, half-scolding clutching her wooden spoon like a weapon. “Not so much! You’ll vaporize it!”

He gave her his best innocent grin. “But it’s hot now.”

Maggie snorted into her sleeve. “Remember the popcorn debacle?”

Clark lifted a hand in protest. “That was one time—”

“Clark,” Martha interrupted, turning with mock sternness. “Don’t argue with Maggie. And the pie’s ready.”

Clark sighed. “Yes, ma’am.”

Martha was already ladling the cider into mugs, the rich scent of cinnamon filling the kitchen. Maggie moved to help, gathering the cups carefully and setting them on the table.

By the time she returned for the last two, Clark had the pie out of the oven, steam curling into the air. He carried it to the table, setting it down with deliberate care and a faint grin.

They gathered around the table while Clark cut generous slices for everyone. When Clark served her slice, Maggie seized his wrist. 

"You. Are. Trying. This." Her voice left no room for argument. "I nearly set your mother's kitchen on fire making it."

“I’m not saying no, Mags” Clark chuckled, amused. “Kryptonian taste buds, remember? I just don’t taste sweetness as strong as humans do.”

She stabbed a piece with her fork, thrust it toward his face. "Bite. Now."

“Maggie—”

“Clark.” Her tone was commandingly sweet as it dropped to a dangerous whisper. "I spent three hours on this pie. Three. . . Hours.”

Clark's eyes widened slightly. He leaned forward, taking the bite with silent surrender. His eyes closed, and something like surprise flickered across his face.

"Well?" she demanded nervously, heart hammering against her ribs.

He chewed, swallowed, and smiled. “It’s good.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Maggie's happiness blazed across her face like a supernova. "Told you."

Martha pretended to fuss with the pie tins, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Jonathan, lured in from the barn by the smell of pie, paused at the door to watch how normal this moment was. Their alien son and his metahuman girlfriend (hopefully their soon-to-be daughter-in-law — after college, of course) bickering over the sweetness of pie. 

That was the look of a man — a father — that would walk through fire to preserve this moment forever.

Conversation drifted to old stories, each one louder than the last. Martha's eyes were close to watering as she shared Clark's childhood Halloween disasters. 

"Remember when you tried to be a vampire? Your fake fangs disappeared the second you bit into that caramel apple!"

Clark's face burned crimson as his father continued, "You also snapped a steel sword in half playing pirate. I had to tell the Ross’ you'd found it broken."

Maggie laughed. “I think I’d have gone as a ghost.”

Clark leaned back in his chair, smiling sideways at her. “You’d make a better witch.”

“Clark Joseph Kent!” Martha's oven mitt cracked against his shoulder like a whip.

“What?” he protested, laughing. “The good kind! You know, enchanting!”

Maggie's napkin hit him square in the face as Martha collapsed into helpless laughter.

When the pie was finished and the cider mugs stood half-empty, the old radio on the counter began to hum softly with a haunting melody. Martha and Jonathan had gone into the living room to settle in with a family Halloween movie playing, leaving them alone in the kitchen's amber glow.

Clark caught Maggie’s hand. “Come here.”

She groaned dramatically. “Clark, we just devoured an entire pie.”

"And?" He pulled her up from her chair with superhuman gentleness, his eyes burning into hers. "I'll do all the work."

“Work for…?” she challenged, pulse quickening despite herself.

Clark didn't answer. He pulled her against him with such sudden force that her breath caught. Their bodies collided softly, fitting perfectly together as they were meant to.

They moved in the narrow space between table and island, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shoulders, his hands pressing into her waist like he feared she might dissolve into smoke. The kitchen blazed gold around them, pumpkin light casting their shadows tall against the walls. 

Jonathan appeared briefly in the doorway, saw them swaying together, and turned right back around.

Clark’s chin rested lightly on Maggie’s hair. His heartbeat thrummed against her cheek, steady and inhuman, just a touch too slow, too powerful. The radio hummed quietly on, and for a long simple moment, the world felt small and safe and whole. 

He slowed their momentum so deliberately it was like slipping into honey. Maggie closed her eyes, lulled by the thud of Clark’s pulse. He hummed along under his breath, a tuneless sound, and it made her shiver even as she melted further into him. He always ran a little hot, as if had somehow managed to trap the sun inside his skin.

For a moment she thought about the trajectory that had landed her here, swaddled in his flannel, feet barely grazing the ground as he held her in his arms, his cheek resting on her hair.

Now he was the axis of her world, and she was the only thing that could knock him off his orbit. The thought made her smile, sharp and wild, and she squeezed his waist with both hands, just to feel the muscle shift under her touch. 

“You’re thinking too loud,” he whispered, his lips brushing the top of her ear. “Stop it.”

The kitchen shrank to the span of their arms, the slow drag of his thumb across the small of her back. Time slipped away unnoticed. She knew the song would end, the world would stretch and reassemble itself, but for now there was only this: just two bodies, one rhythm, and safety against the hungry dark.

+++

The world beyond the Kent porch was velvet-dark, the kind of country night that swallowed sound and shimmered with fireflies. The porch light was off, but Maggie and Clark’s jack-o-lanterns lined the steps, their yellow teeth gnashing against the night, each flickering a slightly different rhythm.

Clark and Maggie sat on the steps beneath an old patchwork quilt that Martha had stitched years ago, edges frayed from love and use. The blanket could have covered several people comfortably, but they sat pressed together, knees and hips and shoulders touching as if a single mutual gravity held them.

Maggie burrowed into his side, her head resting on his chest, one hand idly tracing the lines of the plaid flannel she still wore. His arm was wrapped around her, thumb stroking slow circles along her arm and side and hip. Beneath her ear, she could feel a low steady hum.

It was a sound she’d noticed the first time they’d ever been this close, a thing she’d sometimes catch him unconsciously suppressing when he was trying to blend in, but here at home, with no one but the night and the pumpkins and the crickets, it was a low contented purr.

She could have stayed like this forever. She suspected he could, too.

Maggie tilted her head slightly, her hair spilling across his chest as she looked up at the vast sky, stars scattered like diamond dust.

“That one’s Orion,” she said, pointing a finger that was mostly lost in the bulk of the blanket above the grain silo. 

Clark followed her hand, the side of his face pressed against her temple. He was smiling before he even answered. 

“Leo,” he corrected, his voice as gentle as the hand he kept tracing along the outside of her arm. “Orion is winter. Leo comes out early this time of year.”

"I was close," she said, unbothered. "If you squint and tilt your head they’re basically the same."

“That’s not how constellations work, sweetheart,” Clark said, but he said it with so much fondness that Maggie could feel the smile in his words. “Half the constellations you’ve named aren’t even visible from Kansas.”

“Easy, space boy,” She turned her head enough to meet his gaze, her honey-brown eyes reflecting the golden flicker of the pumpkin lanterns. "Astronomy is just connect-the-dots anyway."

“Remind me not to let you navigate,” he teased softly, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on her side. 

“Celestial navigation? Really, Galileo?” Maggie scoffed, lightly swatting his chest. “You’d get lost without me anyway."

His eyes were bright and blue and impossibly open in the half-dark. For a second, she saw something rare in him, but a kind of honest childish pleasure. He wasn’t trying to be anyone’s hero, just a boy on a porch with the girl he loved.

“Probably.”

Maggie’s hand found his, fingers slipping easily between his own, as natural as breathing. “Don’t worry,” she said. “If you ever get lost, I’ll always help you find your way home.”

He squeezed her hand, a little too tight, maybe on purpose. “Promise?”

She looked up at him and nodded, not trusting herself to speak without her voice wobbling.

“Promise,” she repeated, and kissed him. It was brief, but it lingered like a line of honey on his lips.

For a long stretch, neither spoke. The wind picked up for a minute, riffling the quilt. Maggie shivered, and Clark instinctively wrapped her tighter, tucking her closer to his side. The wind carried the faint scent of smoke from a distant bonfire. Their pumpkins’ glow flickered gently across their faces, painting them both in amber light. Fireflies drifted lazily through the fields, tiny sparks weaving in and out of the dark like floating embers.

Clark’s thumb traced another slow pattern along her arm. “You know,” he murmured, “I like this new tradition of ours.”

Maggie hummed in agreement, her voice sleepy but sure. “What tradition?”

“Spending the holiday like this. Nothing big, just. . . this.” He leaned down, brushed a kiss against her hair. “You’re my home. Wherever you are, that’s where I want to be.”

She reached up and touched his cheek, thumb tracing the arc of his jaw.

“Good,” she whispered. “Because I’m never letting you go.”

He leaned in, pressing his lips to her forehead. And for that moment, Clark Kent had everything he’d ever wanted.

Chapter Text

The Luthor mansion was silent except for the whisper of paper.

Lex Luthor sat behind his desk, the amber glow of a single lamp pooling over an open folder stamped Metron Pharmaceuticals. The pages inside were dense with chemical notations and clinical shorthand — Dr. Lia Teng’s research she’d slipped him after their. . . conversation earlier that week.

The Lazarus Serum.

Lex traced the title with the edge of his thumb, lips curving faintly. Trust Lionel to invoke scripture while trafficking in necrotic cell regeneration. His father's particular brand of blasphemy has always been insufferable. 

Poetic, if not grotesque.

Not many people realized that Lex had graduated from Princeton with a bachelor’s degree in biochemical engineering. In less than four years, too. His exile to Smallville had merely interrupted his post-graduate plans at Yale, not his intellect. Whatever else the town thought of him, he had no issue parsing molecular data or clinical shorthand.

Tonight, that skill was put to use. 

Lex sat reading through them with the absorbed calm of a man returning to an old, familiar language.

Teng had written, in her neat handwriting:

Liver cell regeneration — strongest resistance observed. Subject required smaller dose for viability; systematic long-term cellular decay resumed after twelve hours.

Lex’s eyes narrowed as he turned the page. This serum was both abomination, far too unstable to be practical, and miracle. Still, the implications tugged at him.

The researcher and business man in him saw breakthrough; the man looking for redemption saw suffering.

He leaned back in his chair, letting the idea simmer. He remembered Teng’s expression in the dim light of the lab, haunted and hopeful.

“You’re my only chance to get out from under your father’s grip.”

Lex had almost laughed at that. Not out of cruelty, but a familiar dark recognition. Everyone wanted saving from men like Lionel Luthor. Few understood the price. 

The heavy doors to the study burst open.

Lex didn’t flinch. Years of friendship had conditioned him to the sound of unannounced farm boots on marble, even as another part of him tensed at the intrusion.

He slid the papers beneath a financial report with practiced ease. The faintest ghost of amusement touched his voice, masking the flicker of irritation.

“At this point, I might as well just install a revolving door.”

Clark barely managed a distracted smile, hovering halfway between pacing and standing still, worry written across his face.

“Sorry,” he choked out. “I just. . . I needed to talk to you.”

Lex rose from his chair and walked to the bar cart beside the window. Crystal clinked against crystal as he poured scotch into his glass. Then reached for another tumbler, filling it with cold water from the crystal decanter. He wondered if he should be relieved by the distraction or resentful of it.

With Clark, it was a toss up what he brought through the door with him. Lex turned back to Clark, handing him the glass. 

“Before you wear a hole in my floor.” He gestured toward the sitting area by the fireplace, the flames casting a warm, uneven light across the dark-paneled room. 

Lex sank into one of the leather chairs with effortless grace, one leg crossing over the other.

Clark didn’t sit. He clutched the glass and kept pacing.

Lex took a slow sip of his drink, eyes following Clark’s restless motion. The amusement slipped from his expression, replaced by quiet concern that warred with his desire to return to Teng's research.

“Is this about your father?” he asked. “I wanted to stop by, but I didn’t think I’d be. . . welcome.”

He'd monitored Kent's recovery obsessively. Even sent the surgeon a small gift as thanks for keeping the man alive during an active bomb threat down the hall. By all accounts, Jonathan expected to make an excellent recovery. Or at least his discharge papers from was released earlier today said so. 

Clark shook his head. “Dad’s fine. It’s not that.”

Lex leaned forward slightly, glass balanced between his fingers. “Then what is it? You’ve been scarce lately. Even for you.”

At first, Lex assumed it was because of Lionel — which, frankly, was for the best. The further Clark stayed from his father’s orbit, the safer he was.

But then Lana had stopped by the Talon one afternoon, concern barely concealed by small talk. And later, Chloe had dropped a half-confession about Clark being angry with her. It all boiled down to the same thing: Clark’s changed; he’s distant; there’s a girl.

Alicia Baker.

Lana had said the girl’s name with a touch too much hesitation, and Chloe with a hint too much bitterness and a half-confession about Clark being angry with her. To Lex, that said more about them than it did about this new girl in Clark’s life. 

Still, their worry had caught his attention. Clark rarely let anyone close. If he was, it meant something.

Lex tilted his head slightly, eyes softening beneath the amber glow of the firelight that cast long shadows across his face. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with the girl you’ve been spending time with, would it?”

Clark's grip tightened around the tumbler, his knuckles whitening against the crystal. 

Lex watched him carefully, glancing briefly at the tense line of Clark's shoulders. He wouldn't press, not yet.

“You look like a man standing guard over something,” he said quietly, his voice a smooth counterpoint to the crackling fire. “Or someone.”

Clark’s eyes flicked up from the fire, sharp and uncertain. “What do you know about her?”

Lex leaned back slightly, the edge of his glass catching the firelight. “The Smallville rumor mill doesn’t slow down.” His tone softened, the practiced Luthor detachment melting away. “Relax, Clark. I didn’t pry. I’d rather hear it from you.”

That seemed to help. The tension in Clark’s shoulders wavered, then eased into something more vulnerable. It was just a fraction, but enough for Lex.

He let the moment settle before asking, “Whatever’s happening between you and this girl, you can trust me with it. You know that, right?”

Clark's calloused thumb traced the rim of his untouched glass, eyes fixed back on the dancing flames. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than the leather beneath him.

“Maggie,” he said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth like a shy child. “Her name is Maggie Baker.”

Something unknotted in Lex’s chest. For the first time in a long time, Clark wasn’t dodging him or deflecting. He was actually sharing. Trusting Lex with something — someone — he cared about. 

“Maggie,” he repeated, testing the name on his tongue like a sommelier might savor a rare vintage as his smile grew into something softly genuine. “All right, tell me about Maggie.”

Clark hesitated, shifting from foot to foot on the Persian rug, hands fidgeting with the glass like it might break under his grip. “She’s. . . different.”

A corner of Lex's mouth curved upward, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “Everyone says that when they’re falling for someone.”

“It’s not—” Clark stopped, sighed, rubbed at the back of his neck. “I-I mean it is, kinda, but not like that. She’s been through a lot. Things. . . things most people wouldn’t understand.”

Lex nodded, expression open but unreadable. “And you do?”

"I want to," Clark said, then shook his head. "I mean, I do. But she won’t let me do anything. She keeps saying she can handle it and maybe I’ll just make things worse if I get involved.” His fingers tightened around the glass. "But what if she's right? Every time I try to fix something, people just get hurt."

Lex leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “Clark, you can’t save everyone. Sometimes people have to choose to be saved.”

“You sound like my dad.”

“No,” Lex said, then hesitated. “Your father wants to protect you from the world. I’m telling you what the world looks like when protection fails.” He looked away, jaw tightening. "Though maybe he's right sometimes."

The fire popped in the hearth, and for a moment the only sound was the wind against the windows.

“You’ve seen worse,” Clark said. It wasn’t a question. 

Lex’s eyes flicked toward the fire, expression distant for the first time all evening. “You could say that.”

Memories surfaced that he could never truly escape: the stench of fevered sweat and antiseptic, the sting of restraints biting into his wrists, the hollow words of his father telling him it was all for his own good.

His father’s idea of love.

Lex swirled the amber liquid in his glass, forcing the ghosts back down. “Growing up a Luthor teaches you things about power, control, and what people call help. Most of the time, it’s just another form of ownership. But sometimes—" He stopped himself.

Clark watched him, silent.

“I don’t know what Maggie is going through,” Lex finally said, meeting Clark's gaze with something less certain than before. “But I have seen things. And I’ve learned how to deal with it.” 

Clark hadn’t stopped pacing since he started talking. He finally sank onto the couch, elbows on his knees, the tumbler of water clutched tight between his hands. He opened his mouth, closed it, then stared at the floor.

"She's been through a lot, Lex," he said quietly. "Even before all this. I shouldn't—" He shook his head. "She made me promise not to tell anyone."

Lex stayed silent, one leg crossed over the other, letting Clark keep going.

“Her parents. . .” Clark swallowed hard. “They’re not good people. They kept her locked in their house for years. Said they were protecting her.” His voice dropped. "I know what it's like to have parents who think they're protecting you, but this was different. They treated her like she was. . . she was a prisoner."

Clark's fingers tightened around the glass. "I don't know if I should be telling you this. She trusts me."

“And you trust me,” Lex said, his voice neutral.

Clark looked up, caught. “Yeah. I do.” He took a breath. “She got out one day, tried to make a friend. There was an accident, a boy got hurt. They sent her to Belle Reve because no one believed her.

“That’s when she met McBride.” Clark's voice hardened. “He was her doctor there. He was supposed to help her, but he’s. . .” He trailed off, shaking his head, anger flashing for the first time. “He’s obsessed with her, Lex. He has her wear this collar — says it’s part of her treatment, but it’s not. It’s—” He breathed out hard, trying to steady himself. “It leaves bruises. He knows it hurts her.”

Lex leaned forward slightly, his voice quiet but sharp. “And she still goes to him?”

“She has to.” Clark’s words came out tight, bitter. “After a year of. . . treatment, she was released, but one of the conditions was mandatory follow-ups. Every week at first. Now it’s every other week.”

Lex’s eyes narrowed, the faintest flicker of recognition crossing his face. “So he still has authority over her.”

Clark nodded. “If she misses an appointment, he can report her and send her back.” He stared down into the glass, knuckles whitening. “She’s terrified of him, Lex. Every time she has an appointment, I can see it. She won’t talk about what happens, not really. The last time. . . he called it a procedure but he—” Clark’s jaw clenched. “He hurt her. Ripped the scab off on purpose. . . said he smiled while he did it.”

The words hung heavy between them. Lex didn’t move for a long moment. Lex set his glass down, fingers steepled. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, the kind of calm that came from fury pressed into control. 

 “And no one else knows? Her parents?”

Clark shook his head. “I get the feeling her parents know, or at least they know something. But. . . maybe they just don’t care.” His voice dropped to a ragged whisper. The words caught in his throat like he was ashamed. “She doesn’t talk about them much, but when she does, it’s never good.

Lex breathed out slowly through his nose, his pale fingers tightening around the crystal tumbler. The firelight caught the tension in his jaw, casting sharp shadows across his face.

“Neglect can be its own kind of abuse,” he said quietly. “If she’s learned not to expect protection from the people who should’ve given it first, that would make McBride’s control easier to enforce.”

“She doesn’t trust anyone, Lex. She barely trusted me with this.” His throat worked as he swallowed. “If she knew I was telling you all this. . .”

“She’d feel betrayed,” Lex finished quietly.

Clark stared into the fire. “But I can’t just watch it happen.”

Lex leaned back, eyes dark in the reflection of the flames. “You shouldn’t have to.”

For a few seconds, neither spoke. The only sound was the slow ticking of the clock and the hiss of burning wood.

“I think she’s scared he’ll do it anyway. . . lock her up if he thinks he’s losing control of her.”

Lex sat back, silent for a moment. “That makes sense. A man like that. . . “ he traced the rim of his glass with one manicured finger, “obsessive, possessive. . . he’d use whatever power he has to keep her under his thumb. Control through fear. And anyone who threatens that control. . .” He trailed off, eyes shifting slowly from the fire to Clark. “He’d find a way to remove them.”

Clark frowned, the implication landing. “You mean—”

“I mean,” Lex said evenly, “that you’re right to be careful, Clark. A man who brands a girl to prove ownership isn’t going to stop because she flinches. He’s going to stop when someone makes him.”

Clark’s breath hitched, not at the words but at how calm Lex sounded saying them, how the promise of violence sat comfortably in his friend's cultured voice like it belonged there.

Lex turned back to his friend, watching him with a level calm that didn’t dull the warmth behind his eyes. “You did the right thing telling me, Clark.”

“I know but,” Clark looked away, ashamed. “I broke my promise to Maggie. And I just dumped everything in your lap.”

“You shouldn’t handle this alone.” Lex’s voice was low, even, the warmth beneath it unmistakable. “Neither of you should. You have a terrible habit of shouldering the world and pretending it doesn’t hurt.”

Clark tried to smile, but it came out brittle. “I guess I finally learned something.”

“You learned to trust,” Lex said. “And that’s not nothing, Clark. I know what that costs you.”

He stood, pacing toward the window, the reflection of the flames stretching long across the glass. “Growing up, trust was considered weakness, it was what made people easy to break. And love. . .” He gave a humorless breath of laughter. He paused a moment before shaking his head. “He taught me everything I know.”

Lex turned back, expression steady again. “So believe me when I tell you, Clark, I can do things you can’t. Let me be the one who handles McBride.”

Clark breathed out slowly, some of the strain leaving his shoulders. Lex walked back toward him, resting a hand lightly on the back of the sofa. 

Lex’s voice softened again, steady but protective. “You try to save people, it’s who you are. But sometimes saving them means knowing when to pass the baton. You made the right choice coming to me. Don’t doubt that.” 

Clark’s grip tightened on the glass. “But what if it’s not enough? What if he—”

“He won’t,” Lex cut in gently but firmly, squeezing Clark’s shoulder. “I won’t let him.”

Clark blinked at him, caught between disbelief and relief, his eyes wide as a child's. Lex walked around the couch and sat beside Clark. 

“Men like McBride thrive because no one looks too closely. I’ve seen that kind of obsession before, it rots everything it touches. If he’s marked her as his possession, he’ll destroy anyone who threatens that. But that also means he’s predictable. And predictable men are vulnerable.”

Clark stared at him, something dark and protective simmering behind his eyes.

“You came to the right person, Clark. I know what men like McBride are. And I know how to end them.”

+++

The door shut behind Clark and for a moment the study was quiet except the faint ticking of the antique clock and the whisper of wind against the stained glass. Lex sat unmoving, gaze fixed on the empty tumbler in his hand, watching the reflections stutter in the cut crystal.

He’d meant what he said. 

Clark had done the right thing in trusting Lex. And now that fragile faith sat squarely in Lex’s hands. Trust was a delicate thing when it came to Clark. 

Lex set the glass down with slow precision. The warmth that had softened his voice a moment ago drained away, leaving only a calculated focus.

McBride.

Lex could almost hear his father’s voice, Control the variable before it controls you, son.

He rose from the chair, crossing to the window. Lex’s reflection stared back at him. He was the son Lionel built, but not the one he’d thought he’d become.

Protecting Clark was still about friendship, but now. . . now it was about proof that he could be something other than what his father had made him to be.

McBride had made the mistake of hurting someone Clark cared about. Someone Lex now cared about by proxy. 

That was enough.

He’d start quietly in the morning. No threats, not yet. The first strike would be information. The second, leverage. And if necessary. . . the third would make sure McBride never hurt anyone again.