Adaptation

by a campbell

Smallville, Clark Kent/Lex Luthor

Thanks to fajrdrako for the beta.

Warning: I tried to minimize specifics, but there are some childbirth details and a baby in this story. If stuff like this is a squick for you, pass it on by. If anyone has suggestions for improvement or accuracy, let me know, and I’ll revise. But I did ask for volunteers a while ago and no one responded.

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So what good were these powers of his? Clark wondered in desperation. Seemed that every time someone he loved really needed help, they just weren’t up for the challenge.

He couldn’t even do what a normal person might, couldn’t call for aid, call a doctor, nothing. Because he was the one Lionel wanted, the reason the senior Luthor was upstairs with his cohorts, staking out the house. Not planning to leave any time soon. Lionel wanted him, and his secrets, he’d made that clear, and Clark couldn’t let himself be found. Not now, even though he and his mother were stuck here in the basement at the worst possible time. And just to be more specific, his mom, in labor, stuck here in the basement with just him and no one else.

Lionel and his team of men had moved in on the main floor while he and Mom were poking around downstairs in the fruit room amid murky old canning jars and musty boxes, looking for the “right” suitcase. Because Mom said she thought it wouldn’t be long, now, and that she needed a bigger bag than the one she had upstairs to take to the hospital. Even though she was confident there was plenty of time, she said she wanted to get organized early. And she’d insisted on coming down to the cellar with him, even though he’d tried to talk her out of it, telling her she shouldn’t be going up and down stairs right now. He could find the missing luggage on his own.

She’d paid no heed, just given him a quick kiss and a little push ahead of her toward the basement stairs . Might as well keep things moving, she’d chuckled, right before everything had gone to hell.

Sure, they’d started locking the doors since the last break in, sure, still there wouldn’t have been anything they could do anything to keep the intruders out. From the ground level, they’d heard the thud of doors opening, the grinding screech of equipment being moved in and shoved around on the hardwood floors that Martha, despite Jonathan’s worried protests, had polished so enthusiastically during yesterday afternoon’s burst of energy. Lionel’s muffled voice barking orders, and Martha straightened up abruptly from brushing a layer of dust from the just-located suitcase, stifling a cough as the resulting cloud reached her face.

Clark glanced over from where he knelt on the dank floor beside the stairs to the kitchen, and through the semi-darkness he could see her face pale with fear, or anger, or both. He swallowed hard and stood up with a quick brush to his pants. “I’ll go up and talk to them,” he declared firmly, not letting himself think far enough ahead to be afraid, or to wonder just exactly what he’d say once he got up there.

“Clark, no.” His mom grabbed his arm as he started up the stairs. “Stay here. Don’t make a sound. Not one sound.”

“Mom.” His voice came out in a whine as he halted with reluctance and peered down through the gloom at her anxious face. “It’s our house. They don’t have any right to—-“

“No!” Martha exclaimed, and there was a new darkness in her expression, a darkness that silenced Clarks’ next complaint.

Sure, he remembered about Mom and Lex’s father. It wasn’t as though he could forget what she’d confided in him a few months ago: that she’d been in love with Lionel for awhile last fall and the baby was really his, not Dad’s. But she said even then that it was over, that she’d come to her senses. Then she’d sworn him to secrecy, and he’d readily agreed. Dad hated the Lionel Luthor enough already; he sure didn’t need an extra reason. And Clark wasn’t about to cause more trouble between Mom and Dad by spilling anything she’d said to Jonathan. Besides, wasn’t he a master at keeping secrets?

After spending a few sleepless nights, and a brief spell feeling nasty and resentful himself toward Lionel for seducing his mom (though she swore Lionel didn’t deserve all the blame) and putting an expiration date on his accustomed status as an only child, he’d pretty much gotten over it, or at least told himself he had. Even though the thought of having a sibling after all these years made him feel unexpectedly scared and vulnerable. And more jealous and uncomfortable than he cared to admit. Maybe it was because he was adopted. At any rate, even though it was all beyond weird and made him feel all kinds of yuck, he loved Mom, and they had their pact, and--

“I won’t involve Lionel further in this,” she’d said firmly that windy spring afternoon in the loft, her eyes large and dark in the gloom, holding his gaze, and Clark knew better than to argue when she used that tone. “I want nothing more to do with him, nothing. I’ve already betrayed your father enough. And especially since he was investigating you, Sweetie--” Mom had started to cry, then, and hugged him for a long moment, getting his shirt all wet. “I don’t know what I was thinking. It was a brief madness, it’s over, now, and it won’t happen again.”

As he gazed worriedly at her, now, the same expression on her face told him she hadn’t changed her mind. “Just stay quiet,” Martha ordered.

Steps dragging, he turned back as bidden, landing back on the basement floor with a defeated sigh.

Lionel’s voice, sharp, querulous and stentorian, rose above the mumble and mutter of his staff upstairs. Lionel. Clark frowned. Now that Lex was lost, presumed drowned at sea, his father had pulled out all the stops. Didn’t care about anything any more, or who he hurt, and his obsession with Clark was just growing worse and worse. Not for the first time did Clark feel a stab of desolation at the memory of his best friend, worse than any fear of his secret being discovered. Lex would have at least an idea or two how to cope with all this. Would probably have brought out a story about Alexander or Charlemagne having to deal with something similar blue-million years ago. Lex would have been able to make him smile. Lex and he would’ve been half-brothers to the same baby. Well, at least Lex would have been. Clark would’ve laughed, and teased him, and…but, no, his promise to Mom would have had to have been the same. Realistically he had to admit that Lex probably wouldn’t be told Mom’s secret, either. Even though she knew about Lex and him, what they’d meant to each other, and was as cool with it as a mother could reasonably be.

Knowing Lex, though, he’d probably try to find it out on his own. Like father, like son in some ways. Lex could be more tenacious than Chloe when he had wind of a secret.

Not that it mattered, anyway. Lex was dead. He’d never be back. Clark wondered just how long it would take for the realization to stop slamming into him with such awful force. And just when it would stop hurting so much.

Clark was jolted back from the bleak despair of the thought to the present as his mother made a small sound, tense, pained. He looked up in surprise. “Mom?” His voice came out barely above a whisper, which surprised him.

She looked almost as startled, but smiled, just a little. “It’s nothing,” she assured him with an abrupt shake of her head. “Just a little stitch in my side.”

But Clark saw the blood drain from her face as she spoke.

***

When they’d wrapped their minds around what was happening upstairs, Mom had just said firmly, “We’ll wait for them to leave.” But the intruders didn’t leave. Clark used his x-ray to see them running up and down the porch stairs, back and forth to the vans and trucks parked in the yard. Carting more stuff into the house than he would have thought could’ve fit even into all those vehicles. They were in it for the long haul, was Clark’s worried thought.

Now a couple of hours had passed.

Things with Mom were getting serious. That “stitch” had morphed into something that was getting worse by the minute. Her clothes, and the floor by the stairs, were soaking wet. This was for real. Martha had slid to the floor by the clothes dryer a few minutes ago, both hands on her taut belly, trying to smother moans of discomfort that were growing rapidly more frequent. She bit dry and bleeding lips to keep from crying out. She was panting, breath ragged, and so was he.

“Mom, why don’t--” he began hesitantly. Wincing, eyes squeezed shut, she held up a hand for him to be silent.

Okay, he was learning fast. No conversation during contractions. Period.

When it was over, Clark tried again, words fairly tumbling over themselves in order to get everything said before the next one hit.

“We need to get you to the hospital,” He tried to sound determined, in control, and more courageous than he felt.

Martha’s response was a feeble, regretful chuckle. “Sweetheart…I don’t think I’m going anywhere right now.”

Oh, God. And this had to happen while his dad was in Wichita, a week and a half ahead of schedule. He should have paid attention all those evenings while his parents were practicing Lamaze and going over the procedures they’d learned at the hospital class, instead of hot-footing it out to the barn in embarrassment. Maybe if he had, he’d be some use now. A couple of weeks ago Jonathan, a little self-conscious, had asked Clark if he knew what to do in case of an emergency. He’d said yeah, sure, and changed the subject as fast as he could. There wasn’t going to be any emergency. Hadn’t he overheard Pete’s mom saying at Martha’s shower last month that first babies took forever? So there was no way there wouldn’t be plenty of time.

But his conscience had gotten the better of him, so still, just in case…he’d picked up one of Mom’s library books, “Pregnancy and Birth after 35,” and glanced half-fearfully at a couple of the pages before closing the cover in alarm. WAY too much information, and information he wouldn’t need, anyway, because there wasn’t going to be any emergency and nothing was going to happen. But his memory was good, and maybe he’d managed to retain a fact or two, just in case. A handful of terms spun around in his head, transition, first stage, second stage…his stomach gave a small, uneasy flip. He didn’t feel any more like processing all this than he had before, but he didn’t have much choice. Pondering a moment, he did recall seeing a sentence or two about it being safer in an emergency not to try to move a woman in labor. So, okay, Mom had the right idea about staying put.

Clark took a deep breath and tried an alternate suggestion. “Mom, we need to get help. How about if I super-speed to Smallville Medical and have them send someone back here. I could wait to come home until it’s over and Lionel’s gone.”

“No,” Martha said sharply. “Lionel mustn’t know anything about this. I’ll die first.”

Her words made him feel sick. “Mom! Please don’t say that.” He kneaded her wrist as gently as he could. “But you need a doctor. Please let me go get someone. Please.”

She shook her head, eyes squeezed shut. Clark’s heart hammered dully against his ribs. He knew Martha was unshakable when her mind was made up. They might be on their own for this.

At the very least, he’d helped his parents birth calves, so how much different could it be? He hadn’t given it any thought beyond that. And, he couldn’t believe he just thought that, he reflected with a small shudder. It was a little different with people, for a lot of reasons.

There was another contraction, so bad that Martha put her hand to her mouth and bit hard enough to break the skin.

He gulped, swallowed. Maybe a lot different. He had a white-hot, frantic wish to be somewhere, anywhere, else.

Martha was always brave, sensible and the one telling him what to do. But she kind of had her hands full at the moment.

“The books all said the early stage was supposed to last longer.” Her voice was ragged, though not much above a whisper.

Clark cast a dazed glance at his watch, then back down dumbly at Martha. He couldn’t think of what to say as she continued.

“That contractions were supposed to be ten minutes apart, then five…I guess…books can be wrong.” She tried to chuckle, but the smile faded from her face as she winced again.

“For sure,” he finally managed. His throat was dry, and he cleared it, but his voice still came out hoarse. “Seems like no more than two minutes at best, right now.” Clark had one brief second of feeling less guilty for not spending more time on the books before Martha gasped again.

“It’s going so fast, Clark… Sweetie, I’m so sorry… to put you through this.” She was breathing in short little pants, and Clark thought she looked a little scared, too.

“Mom, please. Don’t talk. Save your strength. And don’t worry about me. Think about yourself, and the baby.” He dropped down beside his mother and gathered her in his arms. The coldness of cold cement floor was slowly penetrating his jeans, and Clark looked around helplessly for something to put under her back for support. He snatched mildewed swing cushion from one of the shelves that lined the wall and laid it on the floor. “I wish there was something better.” He reached up for a folded bedspread from the basket of clean laundry sitting folded on the dryer and spread it as flat as he could on the cushion, then helped Martha transfer from the floor, supporting her gently under her arms. She lay back with a wince, and thanked him with a faint smile. “Thanks, Sweetheart.” She touched his arm, then her fingers tightened as another contraction hit.

Martha’s grip would have left bruises on the wrist of a normal person. As soon as her breath returned, she began again. “Clark, they mustn’t…hear anything…upstairs.”

“I’ll think of something, Mom” He tried to smile as he swiped the back of his free hand across his perspiring brow. “I could just kill them all.” He imagined training his heat vision on Lionel and was shocked at the cold, satisfied fury that coursed through him at the thought.

“Clark!” There was real fear in Martha’s tone, and Clark felt a clutch of alarm. He shouldn’t say or do anything to upset her further. She needed to stay as calm as possible. “Just a joke, Mom. Just trying to lighten the mood a little. Here.” Standing up, he lifted the freezer lid, and leaned over to fish out a handful of ice chips. He crouched back down and slipped a couple of the slivers between her dry lips. She let them melt, swallowed obediently, then tensed again.

“Mom,” he murmured in agony, “I should go, now.”

“No, don’t. Please…Clark…don’t leave me here alone.”

“Mom, please.”

“I’ll be okay if you stay. We can do this together. But please don’t leave me, Sweetie. Please.”

So he was stuck. Not that he really wanted to go either, though a small part of him did. He just wanted to do the right thing, but damned if he knew what that was. Except that he had to do as she said, and as she wanted. This was really her show.

And he just hoped that, when the baby was born, the basement was soundproof enough to absorb any sound.

He came to one more cold, clear resolution.

I’ll protect you both, he vowed.

***

Clark could only guess at how much time had passed, just knew that it had been morning when they’d come downstairs, and now the shadows were lengthening out in the yard. There’d been a lot of noise upstairs, while downstairs there’d been a lot of contractions and melted ice. He could tell that the pain was almost constant now.

At least it's cool down here, he thought. Thank goodness for small mercies. The steamy summer heat outside was kept at bay by the thick stone foundation

He waited helplessly, tensely as the longest and hardest yet in the endless line of contractions came and went. When Martha could speak again, she gasped. “Quick. Please. Give me something to bite on. They mustn’t hear.”

He nodded and flinched as he pushed a clean, wadded handkerchief from the basket into her mouth between her teeth. Martha bit down on the cloth with a moan and Clark trembled. Mom hardly ever cried, but tears of exertion oozed down her flushed cheeks, mingling with perspiration. And she never swore, but he was sure she must feel like it, and wouldn’t blame her if she did. He knew his mom was tough but she wasn’t that young, and this was her first baby. And she was always brave, but the way she was groaning with pain, Clark knew it had to hurt bad.

For himself, he felt nearly as ill and woozy as though there were kryptonite around. He didn’t usually get tired or headaches or anything like regular people, but the strain was wearing on him just the same. Part of him wished fervently that Dad would come home, that Jonathan could step in and Clark could turn the whole business over to him. Here, Dad, you take over now, he yearningly imagined himself saying. I’m going to Pete’s, or to collapse, or as far away as possible. Call me when it’s over. Another part of him wondered if it was this bad for all women, and, crazily, whether his own species had been able to improve on the process. If they had, that knowledge was probably gone with the rest of the planet.

How little use his powers were right now. They were sure no substitute for medical training. He couldn’t stop his mother’s suffering, and he wasn’t sure how much more of this she could take. Without a doctor, she could die.

He tried once more. “Mom, if I hurry, I can…”

She took the cloth from her mouth and threw it on the floor. “No.”

Clark swallowed hard as he got up and turned the stationary tub-faucet on, hard. He let the water get cold, then splashed some on his own face before soaking a clean washcloth under the stream.

Her mind was made up. No use arguing any further.

He knelt back down beside Martha to sponge her sweat-drenched face and neck.

“Mom, please try to relax. You don’t have to keep trying to talk to me, either.”

“Honey, believe me, it helps take my mind off the worst of it. Oh…”

Clark shut his eyes tight and gripped her hand to encourage her as she gripped his, wishing he could will some of his strength into her body.

As though Martha read his thoughts, she tried to smile. Then she pulled her hand away.

“I don’t think I can do this after all, Clark,” she moaned on a sigh that was half a sob.

Oh, no, he thought. But one of the few things he remembered from his frantic glance at the baby book was that Transition could be the hardest part, most discouraging part of labor. A mother could lose heart for the whole process at that point. But that it was the last really tough part before the baby was born. Maybe there was hope that this might be over soon.

He reached to brush a damp strand of hair from her tired face. “Yes, you can, Mom. It’ll be over soon. Just try to be strong.”

She turned away from his touch. “Don’t touch me right now,” she snapped.

Definitely transition, he told himself. The book had said something about a tendency toward irritability, too.

“Mom, I know you’re tired, and it must seem like this is going to go on forever. But it won’t. It’ll be over soon, and it’ll be worth it. You just have to hang in there a little longer.”

And somehow, Martha did seem to take heart at his words, however momentarily, which encouraged him. With another sponge to her brow, he grabbed her hand, and continued.

“Hold my hand tight. It doesn’t matter how hard you squeeze. You can’t hurt me, remember? And just breathe, Mom, breathe.” He knew enough even without books to know that breathing was a really big thing when babies were being born. He wasn’t sure why, but--

“Breathing’s not helping, Clark, not doing anything.” Her breath caught in something between a gasp and a choke.

“Well, it will. You just have to keep it up.” His voice slowed to a stop as he sensed that something had changed.

“I have to push,” she declared.

No, he thought with dull panic, despite his relief of moments before. It’s too soon, it must be. Idiot, he admonished himself immediately, figuratively biting his tongue. Because as long as this had gone on, it could be time, after all. And he was so scared. But no. He couldn’t give in to being scared. He owed it to Mom to be as brave as he could be and keep a clear, practical head.

“Are you sure?” he demanded. Martha’s fingers curled into fists as she tried and failed to grip at the frayed sides of the cushion. “Never mind. Forget I said that.”

She didn’t even try to answer his remark, but managed to stammer in a shaky voice. “Clark, Sweetheart, you’d better wash your hands.”

I really don’t want to be here, he found himself thinking one last time, despite his earlier attempt to talk himself up. Jerk, he chided himself. Have some backbone. He rose obediently to his feet, turned on the faucet again, squirted out a big handful of liquid soap, and scrubbed, gnawing his bottom lip.

And wondered what in the hell he could do if Lionel heard the baby cry when it was born.

***

And then, it had to have been a miracle, but as he dried his hands, Clark heard the sound of slamming doors and motors churning to life. The footsteps upstairs faded and disappeared. He sobbed with relief as he threw the towel into the tub.

He scanned up and out. “They’re leaving, Mom.” Thank God, thank God, he thought. Now, if she couldn’t keep from screaming, it was okay. Now they didn’t have to worry about anything but…getting this done.

He tried to think of it as though it were a farm chore like any other. It was beyond too late now to call anyone.

I’ll just have to do the best I can, he told himself.

Clark dropped back down beside his mother. Martha took a deep breath, pushed with what looked to Clark like every atom of strength she had in her. After a long moment, she gasped for breath. “Nothing’s happening.”

“Just keep trying, Mom. It’ll happen. Hang in there.” He sounded like a broken record this afternoon, was his rueful realization. “It’ll be over soon.” And he just hoped he was right.

***

Now it all seemed to be happening so fast, uncontrollably. A thatch of damp, dark hair appeared, receded, then bulged out again, and receded again. There was blood and other fluid, but not as much as he’d dreaded and feared.

Still, he felt the blood drain from his own face, My God, thought Clark. This is for real. It’s really a baby. He fought off the urge to go giddy and lightheaded as a surge of crazy amazement broadsided him. Even though once or twice over the recent months Martha had frequently grabbed his reluctant palm and placed it on the moving lumps that bulged and rippled under her shirts and sweaters, the skin of her belly, it still hadn’t seemed real, just weird. Tempering his action with a smile, he’d always pulled his hand away as soon as he could without hurting her feelings.

Okay, so he’d been a dweeb then, but he didn’t have to be one, now. He felt unseen strength coming from somewhere, empowering him. He overrode his thoughts, his fears, and just acted on instinct.

“Okay, Mom. Let’s get this done. Another push. Come on, you’re doing great.” He moistened his lips and thinned them, summoning strength from somewhere and trying to pass it on. “One more push, Mom. Come on. I can see the baby.”

And then, before he knew it, the slick head and then the entire baby was in his hands. He gasped with excitement, shock, he wasn’t sure what.

“Mom, it’s a girl. Just what you wanted.”

Clark held the shrieking, squirming infant more dexterously than he would have thought he was capable of and turned it right-side up. He grabbed a ball of twine from the tool shelf and tied with hands that shook only a little, then cauterized the umbilical cord with a well-aimed blast of heat vision. He pulled one more a soft towel from the basket of clean folded laundry, wrapped it around the small, wriggling body, and handed it to his mother, who was struggling to get her breath back but ecstatic. She looked at tiny hands, counted toes, and sighed with relief at finding everything perfect.

“And never thought I’d get! Oh, Clark…I’ve waited so long for this, so long.”

“I know, Mom.” He tucked the towel up a little tighter around the baby’s chin. Martha was shivering so badly that her teeth chattered, and Clark and opened the dryer, which still held the last load of clothes his mother had run the day before. He yanked out a light quilt and spread it over them both. My family, he thought. For some weird reason, now that he wasn’t the only kid in the house, it seemed like a real family for the first time. Wasn’t that exactly the way Lex had said he’d felt, the day Julian was born?

His eyes burned with hot tears at the memory of his friend, not for the first time that day. God, he missed him.

Clark took a deep, cleansing breath and finally began to relax. It was over. Mom was okay. Everything was going to be all right.

At least he could use his super-speed to effect a fast clean-up, now that all the hard stuff was over. His mom was too busy to pay much attention; in post-birth euphoria, she was giggling giddily like a young girl and gazing at the baby, touching a hesitant fingertip to the small face, cradling the impossibly small hand in one of her own. Clark, again scrubbing his own hands at the stationary tub, glanced over with a smile. Mom looked at least ten years younger, and so beautiful and happy. He felt weak and shell-shocked, but almost as blessedly relieved as he always did when the lead-box lid slammed shut on a hunk of kryptonite. He sagged against the dryer and took a deep breath.

“She’s beautiful. Isn’t she beautiful, Clark?”

Clark nodded as he dried own palm, then the other, on the last clean towel from the laundry basket and sank to the floor beside his mother. “She’s beautiful, Mom,” he agreed, then laughed. “Noisy, though. Good thing they’ve left upstairs!”

Martha joggled the baby a little to try to quiet her, but only putting her to the breast finally did the trick. “Just wait till Jonathan sees her,” she whispered, shaking her head with the amazement of it all.

Clark gazed down at the two of them. “He’ll have a big surprise when he gets home, that’s for sure.” He shook himself from his semi-trance. “I’ll go upstairs and call an ambulance.”

“No,” said Martha, who was gazing down at the bundled infant with enchantment. “No ambulance. They cost too much, and, besides, there’s no hurry, now.”

Clark smiled. “Well, I’ll drive you guys to the hospital then. And then try to get hold of Dad. But let’s get going before Lionel comes back for another round.”

Martha sighed and nodded at last, seeming suddenly weary . “Sweetheart, there’s no way I can thank you for this.”

“You don’t have to thank me for anything, Mom. Where would I be without you and Dad? As if I didn’t owe you guys everything.”

I won’t let you down, Mom. I’ll keep your secret just as you’ve kept mine. I’ll never let on to Dad that she’s Lionel’s daughter. And Lex’s sister, more than mine. What’s one more secret, after all?

“Clark, I’ll find a great way to pay you back, I promise. Maybe nothing as extreme as a truck, but…definitely pie. Lots of it. Cherry, blackberry…”

“That would be great, but you don’t have to do that, Mom. It’s just good that it’s over and everyone’s okay. But I’m really glad that basket of clean laundry was there!” They both laughed with relief and embraced, carefully, so as not to disturb the baby, who had dropped off to sleep in Martha’s arms. Clark, confident that his hands were clean, placed a gentle hand on the small brow and carefully touched one of the damp russet curls.

“You still going to name her after Grandma, like you and Dad wanted to?”

“Of course,” Martha laughed weakly. “We couldn’t possibly call her anything else. “But here, Honey, you hold her for a bit. I’m a little tired.”

He hesitated, then dropped to his knees and held out his arms. As Martha transferred the bundled baby back to him and it nestled against his chest, he felt an unfamiliar tug at his heartstrings. He marveled at how impossibly tiny and soft she felt.

What was there to be so upset about? he wondered suddenly, the confused, baffled hurt feelings and jealousy of the past few months just a dim memory now.

“So you’re finally a big brother, now,” said Martha with a catch in her voice.

“Yeah,” Clark breathed, and then laughed. “And, two redheads in the family, now. Dad and I will have to tread carefully, for sure.”

“And how does it feel?”

“Interesting. And you’re a mother now, for real.”

“Nonsense, Clark. I’ve been a mother for fourteen years. Since the day you came to us.”

When his mother said that, it made Clark feel all warm and loved inside. He’d tried and failed to talk himself into believing it earlier, over the past few months, but somehow now he felt certain that Jonathan and Martha would have enough love for both him and his new…sister. Because blood ties were nice, but they weren’t everything.

His mouth widened into a broad smile, drawing a small warm chuckle from Martha as she gazed at her two children for a moment, then let her eyes fall shut.

He could share. It might even be fun. Clark bent his face to the red, wrinkled blanket-wrapped little face, touched a finger to the tiny button nose.

“Welcome to the family, Hannah,” he said.

_________________

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