Kinship's Dues

by a campbell

Smallville, Jonathan

The fic is set during "Exile", and unbeta'd.

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Even if it brought her new sorrows, even if it led her feet down to death, she would rather die in bearing Erlend a son than that they should both die one day, and leave their houses standing empty, and the corn on their lands should wave for strangers…
Kristin Lavransdatter, The Garland, Chapter 7

The corn was ripe and ready to eat, and yesterday’s batch had cooked up so sweet it tasted as though it had been boiled in sugar water.

Trouble was, Jonathan had no appetite for it this year, and neither did Martha. They’d thrown most of the cooked corn over the fence to the cows after last night’s supper. There’d been a lot left over, close to a dozen ears, much more than there ever used to be. Old habits were hard to break, and Martha still cooked to feed the appetites of two hungry men, instead of just one, a husband who didn’t have much taste for food any more.

When Clark was home.

The stuff just didn’t taste the same without Clark there to chat with while shucking and picking off every last strand of silk, and then later, when the corn was ready, the two of them vying with each other to see who could eat the most. Clark would always polish off at least a half-pound of butter with his pile of ears; Martha would be half done with the dinner dishes and they’d still be at it. They could have made a whole supper, dessert included, on just ears of corn, and sometimes did. But last night, as the summer sun sank in the west, Martha had pushed her plate away still half full, and after a minute or two, with a disgruntled sigh, Jonathan had done the same.

Handling all the farm work himself, now, was hard. So was shouldering the guilt for that being such a major concern. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst was dinner alone with Martha on long summer evenings, neither of them speaking. He could sense her reproach, even when she said nothing about the hash he had made of things, of their lives. The worst was finishing the last of the chores alone in the summertime dusk, going inside to basketball alone in front of the tv, the announcers’ voices blaring in the quiet of the dimly-lit room. And knowing Christmas, a completely childless one, was only a couple of months away.

It had just been so hard to let go of the hope. The hope he’d resisted warming to for so long. Seeing Martha so nervous but happy all that spring, daring to picture himself with a child of his own to carry on the Kent name and bloodline after all…teaching him, caring for him…Maybe that had been wrong of him, since Clark, when it came right down to it, was surely all the son, and more, that any man might wish for. His own damn pride, as usual, got in the way the day that dream died--his own big mouth shooting off, spewing hurt and sowing discord. Even not taking into account his own pain, when anyone, anything hurt Martha, he became a fighter, and went for the jugular, the kill. It was an old habit.

Driving his son away, maybe for good. The final straw in the hardships, the adjustments of the past couple of years.

If it hadn’t been for Lex Luthor and his heedlessness that autumn afternoon, his gleaming blue trucks and violet notecards, he’d not have been forced to tell Clark everything so soon, would have been able to wait until his son was mature and better able to handle it. If it hadn’t been for Lex Luthor… a lot of things would have been easier.

Jonathan scowled, slow burn of shame creeping up his cheeks. Much as he’d like to blame young Luthor, he couldn’t, in all good conscience. He’d had to have told Clark about his origins before long anyway, at the rate those incredible abilities were developing. And, however he might like to deny the real cause for his intense dislike, he couldn't, in good conscience, at least, not to himself, though outwardly he was bound to. He’d face burning coals before revealing it to Martha, but…even with Lana Lang hovering around the farm, around his son, all spring, he still knew where Clark’s heart really lay. His heart, and, all too often, his body. With Lex, up at the mansion.

And it wasn’t that Clark hadn’t been discreet beyond any expectation. Jonathan just knew.

Still, Martha and he had survived a hell of a lot before this, and Jonathan thought, hoped, that things would eventually mend. Until the telephone rang that evening. When Clark, in Metropolis and found at last, grabbed the phone from Lana and delivered those hateful, hurtful words as Jonathan felt the blood drain from his face.

Something had to change. He couldn’t endure yet another day, another week, of the silence around the farm. Around Martha. Around him. Around them.

He wasn’t going to lose his son, damn it. Not without doing everything he could to stop it.

He slid the octagonal key into the pocket of his jeans and headed out.

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