Title: Family
Author: kendermouse
Email: princess_nomad@yahoo.com
Rating: NC-17... barely
Challenge: Truck driver
Notes: I really hate when my characters take a left turn at Albuquerque and forget to tell me. NOT the story i had originally outlined. But i think it's ok. I don't own the characters and i'm making NO money off this, and considering all i have is debt and a leaky air mattress... suing won't get you anything. OH, i lost my primary beta in the divorce (and no, i'm NOT kidding), so a BIG thanks to Psilence for her SUPER FAST last minute beta. Thanks, hon. All remaining mistakes are ALL MINE. - the song at the beginning IS an actual song. The Truck Driving Song by Weird Al. My uncle was a truck driver and i TORMENTED him with it every chance i got. Miss ya, Dale.
Summary: In a world where things turned out a bit differently than what we know, a gifted young man reconnects with his past, and finds his future.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Drivin' a truck. Drivin' a big ol' truck. Drivin' a truck with my high heels...

 

(click)

 

"Dad!" the younger driver protested as the deep-voiced singer was cut off mid phrase.

 

Jonathan Kent glared at his son as he sat back in the passenger seat of the rig. "I don't care if your mother *did* give you that, I refuse to listen to it again."

 

Clark grinned, glancing at his dad before turning back to the long expanse of dark blacktop before them. "Come on, dad. You *know* it's funny."

 

Jonathan slumped in the seat. "I know no such thing." The protest would have sounded more convincing without the almost chuckle in the older man's voice. "Besides," he countered, pulling his cap down over his eyes as he prepared to nap, "we've already listened to it twice since leaving the Kansas City city limits. You're gonna wear it out."

 

Clark chuckled openly. "CD's don't wear out like tapes, dad. I could listen to it again and again and again," he teased.

 

"You know you're a pest, right?"

 

His father's blue eyes twinkled at him from under the bill of the "Smallville Farmers' Cooperative" hat and Clark's smiled. "So you and mom keep telling me," he teased back. "Well, if you're not gonna let me have my music you'd better wake up and talk to me. Don't want to chance your co-driver falling asleep on these back county roads."

 

Jonathan's snort was longsuffering and as familiar as the feel of the rig under Clark's capable hands. They'd been playing this game since Clark was old enough to get behind the wheel of the family owned big rig. When he'd taken driver's education at fourteen he'd already been able to shift an eighteen wheeler through its first six gears smooth as silk. He'd spent summers hauling wheat in the large wheat trucks, learning how to deal with traffic flow and how to control a rig with a shifting load. Then after graduation, he'd taken the final steps to following in his father's foot steps, signing on as a new driver for the thriving community owned Smallville Farmers' Cooperative and joining his father as a team driver for the longer hauls.

 

Most of the truckers for the cooperative had families that they were reluctant to leave for the time it took to haul their goods to the outer distribution points on the coasts and even up into Canada. But Jonathan and Clark, after lengthy family discussions with Martha about the pros and cons of the men being gone for weeks at a time, gladly took over the longer hauls. The trips became "family time" for them, a chance to "bond" as father and son.

 

But this was one of the last hauls for the season. The boys were heading home for the winter and both were looking forward to familiar beds and Martha Kent's home cooked meals. The last run had been easy, the weather holding until just outside of the Wichita city limits and the fairly new highway between Wichita and Smallville was a snow emergency route that the state kept meticulously clean after the meteor debacle 20 years prior. It was amazing what national scrutiny of road conditions could do to... motivate state legislators. Especially when that scrutiny shows that many of those killed in the meteor shower and the unusual storms that followed it, could have been saved had emergency relief teams been able to reach them quicker.

 

But there were no emergency tonight. There was just a nice, gentle snow that would most likely be gone by morning that, while it made the roads a touch slick, was easily handled if one was careful. Clark, use to such typical Kansas conditions, was always careful. His hazel eyes scanned the white coated landscape of bare fields and distant shelter belts of trees. It was good to be home. He let his father's familiar voice wash over him as he drove, absently noting the plans his father had for passing the holidays at home and smiling at the unspoken dictate that Clark would be assisting in those plans. He smiled. He didn't mind. In fact, he loved helping his dad in the workshop, building shelves for mom and small tables and toys that could be sold at the Late Winter Festival in early December. It was amazing the amount of delicate and intricate crafts his father could produce in just over a month and a half.

 

Clark had begun learning to create them as well. During their last few delivery runs, Jonathan had slowly begun teaching Clark the patience and control needed to produce some of the more delicate, hand tooled doll furniture they'd introduced the previous year. It wasn't easy, but the long hours and painstaking practice had helped him refine the fine motor and strength control that he'd need in other areas of his life as well. Clark knew that was part of the reason Jonathan had brought along the antique hand-carving tools. His strength and abilities had experienced another shift, and it was a lot easier to replace a bit of wood, than a fellow driver's hand or a steering wheel. Clark appreciated the practice. Of course, seeing the way the young girls' faces lit up when presented with a small, functional cabinet for their doll houses helped make the frustration even more bearable in Clark's mind. It was one of the better "training methods" his parents had devised over the years since he'd literally burst into their lives in a shower of rocks and fire.

 

"You're gonna stare a hole in the windshield if you aren't careful," his dad teased.

 

Clark shrugged. "Just thinking."

 

"That's never a good sign."

 

Clark chuckled and stuck his tongue out at the older man, delighting in the familiar easy banter. This was what he loved about driving, getting time with his dad. He scanned the passing fields as he drove, watching for unexpected traffic from the sandy side roads or unsuspecting wildlife that hadn't learned the danger of the asphalt strip that broke-up the long stretches of open fields.

 

"Seriously, I was just thinking how lucky I am that I found you two..." he trailed off as movement at the far corner of a field caught his attention. It was too large for a dog or a coyote, but it moved too awkwardly for a deer, unless it was an injured one. He automatically started to ease the truck down, passing through the gears with absent minded precision as he focused in on the vision.

 

A scarred upper-lip pulled back from its perfectly formed but chapped counterpart. "Help me."

 

Clark pulled the semi to an easy stop along the shoulder and set the brake.

 

"What do you see, son?" Jonathan asked, his own eyes scanning the white-tipped darkness beyond the reach of the headlights. Whatever Clark saw it was beyond his own limits, but he'd long ago grown use to his son's gifts.

 

"I'm not sure, dad. I think there's someone out there but…" he turned uncertain eyes on his father. "I'm just not sure."

 

Jonathan smiled reassuringly. "Go do what you need to, Clark. I'll keep the cab warm until you get back." He shifted out of his seat and rummaged through their gear for Clark's coat. "Just be careful. We're closer to the meteor site than I like you to be."

 

Clark nodded as he unlocked the door and stepped out into the Kansas night. "Yes, sir," he promised.

 

"And take your coat," Jonathan urged, handing the bulky jacket over. "You don't necessarily need it, but depending on what you find out there, that new stray just might," he teased. His concern and compassion were thick in his voice and Clark smiled his most reassuring smile.

 

"Yes, sir. I should be right back." Eyes focused on the pale figure in the distance, Clark began to run effortlessly over the snow-dusted fields.

 

~~~

 

He could hear the distant growl of a large vehicle, but was too tired to try and call out again. Besides, the way his luck normally ran, it would be the people he was running from, not help. He wasn't sure where he was anymore, how far he'd gone, how far he still had to go. All he was sure of was that he was tired. Pulled down by that one, overwhelming thought, he lowered his weary body back down, leaning heavily into the solidity beneath him. He'd just rest for a moment, just a moment.

 

A blast of wind buffeted his bare skin and he wondered if it was going to snow again. Perhaps a new blanket of snow would warm him. Wasn't that what… someone had told him once? When lost in a snow storm, burrowing under the snow could help keep you warmer than laying in the elements and the winds. But he wasn't *in* a snow storm, was he? He forced open reluctantly obedient eyes and tried to focus on his surroundings. The night was darker than he remembered, the stars no longer visible to guide him. Just as well, he supposed, realizing he could no longer feel his fingers or toes, a situation that niggled as important at the back of his mind, but he wasn't sure why. All he knew was he doubted he'd be able to follow the stars anymore even if he *could* see them.

 

Another blast of air ghosted over his skin, stirring up the fallen snow until he felt like a figure in a snow-globe. He smiled at the thought, wondering what child had shaken his world and if they were enjoying the otherwise pastoral scene.

 

Between one sluggish thought and the next, he was no longer alone. He blinked, waiting for the figure to vanish. It, or rather *he*, didn't. Clouds of white swirled around the too handsome figure, dusting the dark crown of hair like stars in a night sky. Stars that melted as they fell, soaking and changing all they touched. Stars that fell like fire from the heavens, he trembled at the thought.

 

Large, gentle hands reached for him, burning where they touched his naked skin. But he welcomed the searing warmth, leaning trustingly into the surprisingly solid frame. Compassionate hazel eyes took in his battered form, sadness creeping into the expressive depths.

 

He knew those eyes. He'd seen them once before, the memory hazy but familiar. A memory he'd recounted time and again, especially at night when the pain and darkness threatened. Memories of his angel, a dark haired cherub who'd led him through the charred remains of fields and unfamiliar grounds to safety. Who'd smiled the smile of the innocent just before he disappeared.

 

The others had never believed him. But he'd known, he'd believed. He'd met his guardian angel that day. And now the angel was here again, only… older. Did angels age? Perhaps this wasn't the same angel, perhaps they all had dark, softly curling hair and gentle, beautiful eyes. He wasn't sure, and the idea was too much for his exhausted brain to try and puzzle out.

 

He sighed in contentment as something soft curled around him, cloaking him from the cold. He breathed deep, inhaling long ago scents of safety and comfort. Scents nearly forgotten but so easily recalled... recalled now when he needed their comfort the most. Is that why his angel had come back? Giving him comfort in his final moments? He vaguely remembered calling out to the darkness, knowing no one was close enough to hear. But angels could hear anything, wasn't that what mama had said? Mama who'd held him close, whispering that she'd always hear them, even when she was in heaven. Had she sent his angel? Or had his angel come because he had called? Did it really matter since he was here?

 

He forced open his eyes, needing to see his angel's face, just for a moment before letting sleep take him, perhaps permanently this time. He wasn't afraid; his angel was here, for whatever purpose. "You came," he whispered, chapped lips curling in a tired smile.

 

The angel's arms tightened around him, the beautiful eyes searching his face, looking for something that Lex hoped was there. "You called," the angel answered, his voice low and gentle and so matter of fact, as if there was no doubt that such was the way of the Universe.

 

He nodded. Knowing that the angel would see that things happened as they were meant to, he allowed the darkness to claim him.

 

~~~~

 

Clark skidded to a halt beside the prone form, the snow swirling around him like a mini blizzard. His eyes scanned the still form even as he dropped to the young man's side. Deep bruises stood out in sharp relief against skin blue-tinged with could. The body was too thin, ribs and hipbones too evident to Clark's gaze. The boxer-briefs, the man's only protection from the winter chill, clung precariously to the slender waist obviously too large for the man currently wearing them. Clark wondered if they'd once actually fit the young man and if they had, what had changed that fact.

 

The bald head showed signs of past trauma, bruises and cuts and, as his X-ray vision revealed, partially healed fractures. The same showed throughout the quick examination Clark did before risking any movement of the battered form. Grateful for his unusual talents and the reassurance that he'd do no further harm by moving the too still figure, Clark eased the man into his arms intending to carry him back to the truck and to medical help. The man gasped as Clark's hands touched his ice-cold skin and Clark cursed his higher than normal body temperature.

 

Then the man burrowed closer.

 

Clarke smiled and took the opportunity to wrap his jacket securely around the other man. The man sighed, breathing deeply and relaxing further in Clark's arms. Red-gold lashes tipped with frost and snow fluttered open, revealing oddly peaceful blue-grey eyes.

 

"You came."

 

The voice was rough, ragged and Clark wondered what the cultured tones normally sounded like. He shifted the injured man closer, pulling the jacket tighter around the thin frame. Of course he had come. He couldn't leave someone like this if it was in his power to help them. And thanks to so many factors beyond his control, he had power to spare. "You called," he answered, unsure how else to respond to the quiet awe in the man's voice, as if he were somehow special simply for doing the right thing. The eye lids fluttered closed at the answer and Clark felt the man go lax in his arms.

 

He shifted his burden easily, pressing the bare face securely into the crook of his neck as he pulled up and secured the jacket's hood. While he might be able to withstand the whipping chill of the wind as he ran, he doubted his already taxed "passenger" could. He wished he'd brought mom's quilt so he could wrap the bare legs as well, but he wasn't willing to risk leaving the man here to go back to the truck for it. So he curled the man into him as much as he could then began the rapid run back to the distant truck.

 

It was at times like these, not that he'd had many times like this really, that he wished he could do more than just run. The trek back to the waiting rig would have been so much easier if he'd been able to fly. Instead, he was forced to run over the slick, uneven ground, praying that he didn't trip over a plow furrow or an unseen bit of root. If *he* fell while running this speed the ground suffered more than he did. But if he dropped the man in his arms, or tripped and fell, he doubted the other man would survive it, and Clark would be damned if he'd be the cause of this man's death. The short trip felt like it took forever as he picked his way quickly but carefully over the mile of uneven field. He gradually slowed coming to a welcome stop beside the humming rig and smiled as his father opened the passenger's door for him.

 

"I've got the lower bunk cleared and the extra blankets down as well," his father assured as he helped Clark into the toasty warm cab. "Figured you'd need them the way you came tearing back. Settle in. We're headed back to the farm first, your mom's got extra broth warming for your newest stray if it's up to it. If not, we'll see about getting it to the hospital over in Wichita. They've got good trauma units when it comes to cold injuries."

 

Clark let the words wash over him as he settled his burden into the warm nest of blankets. The man didn't stir but the faint line of pain around his eyes eased a bit as Clark tucked the blanket in around him. The man's stillness worried him and he found himself reaching out to confirm that the faint pulse was still there. It was. "Dad," he whispered, eyes locked on the weather ravaged face, "he's been hurt… a lot." His fingers slipped from the pulse point to caress the chill skin behind one cold reddened ear in a familiar, soothing gesture. "Who would do this and why?"

 

Jonathan shook his head as he put the truck into motion, easing them back onto the road. "I don't know, Clark. I really don't know."

 

~~~~~~~~~

 

Jonathan watched his son settle the newest "stray" into the sleeper bunk. The young man was pale and still in Clark's arms and Jonathan wondered at the stranger's chance of survival. The Kansas cold wasn't something to be taken lightly and the pallor of the bare legs spoke of a fairly lengthy exposure. He moved to the driver's seat and adjusted the seat and mirror settings as Clark finished tending to their guest.

 

"Dad, he's been hurt… a lot."

 

The confusion and pain in his boy's voice tore at Jonathan. Clark had always had such a tender heart. For all his strength and gifts, his boy could be so easily hurt by the pain of others. It was just one more thing that he and Martha had tried to protect as they'd raised their special son, compassion for his fellow beings.

 

"Who would do this, and why?"

 

He wished he had answers for Clark, but he didn't. He couldn't imagine leaving anyone out in a Kansas winter like this young man had been left. And he had to have been left, for who would wander out like that on their own? He wondered if perhaps the young man was an escaped mental patient, but he knew there were no such facilities nearby. To be honest, there was *nothing* nearby. So where had the young man come from? Clark's words drew his eyes back to the young man and he took in the now revealed face and the bruises and cuts that marred the slack features. Those weren't self-inflicted. Jonathan knew the capacity for cruelty that existed in the human psyche, had seen it first hand too many times. But it had been a very long time since it had hit so close to home. He watched Clark soothe the young man, his fingers gently brushing that odd spot behind the ear that had always fascinated Clark as a child. Martha had wondered if it was a gesture that Clark had remembered from his birth parents, an unconscious gesture that comforted Clark as much as it did the person being touched. They'd never been sure, but Jonathan watched as the touch worked its magic on both young men, the lines of pain and fatigue slowly melting from both expressions.

 

He took a deep breath and turned back around, easing the truck back onto the highway and towards home. He silently vowed that he'd find whoever had hurt the young man now in their care and see them brought to justice. No one deserved to be left to die alone in an abandoned field in the middle of nowhere. No one. Shifting through the gears with practiced ease he gave Clark the only answer he could. "I don't know, Clark. I really don't know." But he would damn sure find out.

 

Pushing away the darkening thoughts Jonathan focused on their more immediate problems. "How's he doing, son?"

 

"He's so cold he's stopped shivering," Clark answered, worry evident in his voice. "He spoke a little when I reached him and then passed out. He's been out ever since."

 

"Why don't you climb under that quilt with him? You're better than this old rig's heater any day," he teased hoping to lighten Clark's mood at least a bit. "Besides, he seemed to calm when you were closer. We're not too far out now, about 25 minutes or so, and your mom's got a hot meal and broth waiting. She'll know how best to look after him. Just keep him calm and try to slowly raise his core temperature. That's about all we can do right now."

 

Clark nodded and climbed into the crowded bunk, curling close to the chilled form and wrapping the homemade quilt around them both. Jonathan risked a look back at them and smiled at the picture the two boys made. Clark's dark hair peeking out from underneath the colorful blanket that had traveled in the every truck Jonathan had ever driven since Martha had given it to him for Christmas the year she'd finally agreed to marry him. That blanket had been Clark's favorite since the minute they'd curled him up in it the night they'd found him wandering, naked and alone, amidst the chaos of a burned out field. Jonathan wondered if Clark knew there was one exactly like it hidden away in his mother's cedar chest for when he decided to move out on his own. Not that they were anxious to see him but Jonathan knew that someday the converted loft in the family barn wouldn't be enough for the young man and his own family. Seeing the tender way Clark held the other young man made Jonathan wonder if the day was coming sooner than either he or Martha suspected.

 

"Did you find anything around him that might tell us who he is, Clark? Or even where he might have come from?" Jonathan asked.

 

"No, sir," Clark answered. "He was the only thing out there and I didn't see any tracks other than his."

 

Jonathan nodded, making mental notes as he listened. "Which direction did he come from?"

 

Clark thought a moment. "South, from the old Sanderson Place, maybe?" Clark's voice dropped as he soothed the injured man who'd begun to shift uneasily under the blanket.

 

Jonathan tried not to focus on the deep rumble that his son's voice had become. It was hard for him to remember sometimes that Clark wasn't a little boy anymore. It seemed like only yesterday that the Heavens had opened up and gifted him and Martha with their own special child. Even with all the tragedy and change that the meteor shower had brought to Smallville, Jonathan couldn't bring himself to regret that night. Not when it had brought them Clark. "He all right?"

 

"Yeah, I think so," came Clark's uncertain reply. "He seems to settle down when I talk to him. Maybe he's worried he's still alone?"

 

Jonathan nodded. "You concentrate on getting him warmed up and I'll call in and have Dan meet us out at the house. We'll need to see if anyone's reported him missing if nothing else."

 

"Makes sense," Clark murmured in agreement, his attention focused on the now slightly shivering body in his arms. "He's warming up at least. He's started shivering."

 

Jonathan hoped the shivering was a good sign. He'd have to make sure that he refreshed himself on hypothermia treatments before his next first aid certification was due. Attention divided between the road and the situation behind him, he fastened on the hands free earpiece and punched in the code of the Smallville Police Department.

 

"Smallville Police Department. This is Barbara. How can I help you?"

 

"Barbara, this is Jonathan Kent."

 

"Oh, Jon. Thank GOD you called in," the dispatcher-slash-secretary exclaimed. "How far out are you?"

 

"About 25 minutes or so. Why?" he asked, worried by the unexpected greeting. "What's going on? Where's Dan?"

 

"He's in the field," came the harried answer. "There was a really messy accident up on highway 60 right at the county line. Couple of kids decided to steal a truck and take a joyride. They tried to beat one of the freight haulers out of Newton to the crossing there at 135^th. They lost."

 

"Damn," Jonathan cursed softly. "Some of ours?"

 

"No," Barbara reassured. "Four kids from Spivey in for the ball game. Truck belonged to Paul Stevens' boy, the star forward this year."

 

Jonathan shook his head. "Idiots."

 

The dispatcher chuckled mirthlessly. "Wait. It gets better. The train was headed for Vulcan Chemical. And it was loaded."

 

Jonathan startled at the news and looked over his shoulder to see if Clark was listening in as well. Their eyes met and the younger man nodded, clearly alert to the conversation. "Do they need us?" Clark asked softly. Jonathan shrugged.

 

"Barbara. Clark wants to know if you need us."

 

"Not sure yet, Jon," she answered. "The volunteer fire department's already reported to the scene and the ones officially off duty are waiting here on standby should they be needed, but it looks like the seals on the cars held. One of the kids survived and the engineer had some minor injuries but Kyle and the EMTs have already transported them to Hutchinson. BUT, Dan's out there dealing with the Sheriff's Office, the Highway Patrol, the train authority and the county HazMat team. And apparently Samuels from Pratt County has already started a pissing contest of whose scene it actually is." She sighed in exasperation. "I swear that idiot has a death wish."

 

It was Jonathan's turn to chuckle. "No, just delusions of adequacy."

 

Barbara's laughter danced over the phone connection making Jonathan smile. "I'll have to remember that, Jon. It's SO appropriate." She sobered. "We may need to put you back into rotation early, if you don't mind. I know you usually get a week to settle back in before you return to active duty, but I'm afraid Dan's gonna be tied up with this thing for a while and…"

 

"It's not a problem, Barbara," he interrupted. "I'll let Martha know I'm on call. Just tell Dan I'm around if he needs anything."

 

"Thanks, hon." The older woman paused. "You didn't call just to let me know you were headed back," she said. "Did you need Dan?"

 

Jonathan thought for a moment before answering. "No. I just wanted his input on a stray Clark and I rescued out near the old Sanderson place," he hedged, not wanting to say more over an unsecured line, just in case. "But you might have Kyle drop by after they're back from Hutch if he's up to it. And let Dan know he's invited out for some of Martha's stew and a piece of pie when he's free. I'll talk to him then."

 

"Understood," Barbara responded. Jonathan could almost see her perk up at the request, her natural curiosity flaring. "Anything else I can do?"

 

"No. I think we're good," he reassured. "I'll check in when we get settled at the house. If you need us before then, call the cell."

 

"Will do, Jon. Tell that boy of yours we've got *all* manner of rearranging for him to help with once his stray is settled in." Clark chuckled, knowing there was heavy moving in his future. "See you soon. Be careful."

 

"We will be," Jonathan responded before ending the call.

 

"Thanks for having her contact Kyle, just in case, dad."

 

Jonathan nodded. "Sounds like he might not be back for a while though, will he be okay until then?"

 

Clark focused on the young man for a long moment before responding. "I think so. I don't see any signs of internal bleeding or anything. But I'm worried about frostbite on his extremities. I *think* it'll be ok without Kyle, but," he paused, clearly unhappy with what he was about to suggest. "It would be good to have Kyle look at it, just in case."

 

"Better safe than sorry," he answered absently. That was one of the mixed blessings brought about by the meteors, the Gifts. Mutations and special abilities brought on by the radiation from the meteor rocks that affected the citizens of Smallville in unexpected ways. Kyle had been one of the first, a healer whose Gift took its toll on the sweet young man. The healing always took a lot of energy from the energetic blond and so the town protected him, from himself most of the time as the boy would push past his limits and risk his own health if he thought he could help. If the stranger could be helped by conventional means then all the better, but he knew Kyle wouldn't forgive them if they let the man lose fingers or toes when Kyle could have prevented it. So they'd do what they could and hope it wasn't necessary to ask Kyle to do more. "Why don't you settle in with him? I'm gonna let your mom know what's going on."

 

"Thanks, dad."

 

"You're welcome, son."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

He was flying. The wind buffeting him as his angel held him close and flew over the chilled field that should have been his final resting place. SHOULD have been. Then his angel found him.

 

Awareness, slow in coming as heat seared into his chilled flesh; he was burning. Was this hell?

 

His angel's voice, soothing, calming. Familiar scents curled around him, held him tight, scents from a lifetime ago. Flowers and baking spice underlain with a hint of masculine warmth that settled his fears as it had so long ago. He burrowed deep under the softness as he'd done as a child, knowing there was safety there now, just like there had been then. His angel had brought him back here, back to the safety he'd found as a child. He'd thought he was going to die that day, with the certainty of a lost and frightened nine-year old. But he'd survived. He wondered if this was his angel's way of helping him hold on this time. Bringing him back to where he'd found hope before, where he'd been found and cared for.

 

Or maybe he'd just been brought here so he could fall into death unafraid.

 

As long as his angel was with him until the end, he wasn't sure he cared which it was.

 

He drifted, aware then unaware then aware again. It became too tiring to try and make sense of the images, the sounds, so he let himself drift. A deep, masculine voice sounded in the distance. Familiar. Safe. Not his angel, but still a voice he trusted. He relaxed as the growling voice made the world vibrate around him. Warmth settled behind him, solid and searing and so wonderfully welcome. He relaxed into the heat as the world grayed.

 

Pain and fire and screams. A scarecrow falling towards him wreathed in flame, its pale lips calling his name. The Sky Was Falling! Falling and burning and… FATHER! Please, Father. I won't wander again, I swear. Don't leave me here. Please. I'll be good.

 

"Shh. You're safe," a voice promised, breaking through the visions of heat and pain. "You're safe now. Just relax. That's it."

 

He did as he was told. He was a good boy. He could be good. See? But his body shook. No matter what he did it shook. I'm sorry. His thought little more than a muted, wretched plea. His body refused to obey, shaking and shaking… threatening to come apart as the searing heat burned up the pieces that broke free. He wouldn't cry. He was strong. He could do this. He could let the other escape. Keep the other safe. Keep them all safe. If only he could stop shaking.

 

"It's just your body trying to get warm," a voice, his angel's voice, soothed. The gentle murmur washed over him again, loosening the knots of fear and pain, helping him relax into the ether that tugged at his awareness. "You're safe now, I swear it." Fingers caressed his skin, branding him. Would the brand remain once he was dead? Would it be there for all to see, to see the angel's mark on his skin? Or would it fade with his life-force, existing only in this twilight where he was held safe in strong arms surrounded by a long ago scene of safety and caring? Did it matter, really?

 

The world around him fell away and gentle laughter following his exhausted body down to complete oblivion.

 

~~~~~~~~~~

 

The familiar sound of the older model Peterbuilt pulling to a stop in the drive-way drew Martha away from her sink-full of dishes. Drying her hands on the dishtowel she crossed the warm kitchen and opened to door to the back porch. The snow was starting to come down harder now and Martha was glad her boys were home. The radio had said a front was moving in and that the gentle flurries of the early evening could quickly turn to a heavier, thicker fall by morning. She hoped Clark's newest rescue wasn't hurt too badly, because if the weather did turn, getting him to a hospital might prove problematic. Hopefully between the three of them, and possibly Kyle, they'd be more than enough to help the young man.

 

She watched as Jonathan handed down the blanket wrapped form to Clark. She held the screen door open, ushering her son and his burden inside. "The spare room's made up, sweetie. Just make sure to turn off the electric blanket after you get him settled. The sheets should be just warm enough to help bring his temp up without making things worse." She drew one pale hand from beneath the blankets, tisking at the hard, cold skin on his elegant fingers. "Frostbite. Put his hands under the covers as well. I'll bring up a basin of warm water and towels, we'll need to see what other areas have been damaged. We'll need to see if we can get them thawed before they're permanently damaged." She shook her head. Looked like they'd be needing Kyle after all. She sighed, her fingers brushing over the young man's high, pale forehead. "We'll do what we can, sweetie," she promised the stranger.

 

She startled as dazed gray eyes opened and locked on her face.

 

"Mama?"

 

She smiled at the young man, her hand stroking his reddening cheek. "It's all right," she said softly. "You're safe."

 

" 'm cold, mama." The brow furrowed. "Burns," he added in obvious confusion.

 

"I know, sweetie," she soothed, urging Clark towards the stairs, walking with them. "We're gonna help that, or at least try to. Just relax. You're okay."

 

A sleepy nod was the only reply she got as the young man relaxed once more against Clark's broad chest. She smiled at her own son. "Go on. I'll be up in just a minute."

 

"Yes, ma'am," Clark replied, leaning in to kiss his mother's cheek. "Thanks."

 

She watched as he moved up the stairs, careful of the fragile form in his arms.

 

"You're boy did real good, Martha Kent." Strong arms wrapped around her waist and she leaned back into her husband's embrace. "That boy would have died if Clark hadn't spotted him."

 

She nodded. "Has he said anything? Do we know who he is?" she asked as she turned and stole a quick kiss from Jonathan. She moved into the kitchen and poured a measure of the steaming water from the tea pot into a crockery bowl. She handed the bowl to her husband and gathered up the waiting towels, medical kit and bandages. Jonathan scowled as the heat from the bowl burned at his lightly chilled hands, but he didn't complain as he followed his wife up the stairs.

 

"No. He's mumbled a bit but nothing we could make too much sense of. Seems to calm when Clark talks to him though."

 

Martha smiled as she rounded the corner to the find Clark kneeling on the floor beside the guest bed, whispering to the young man while tenderly stroking the skin behind one cold reddened ear. Clearing her throat she was pleased that Clark didn't automatically pull away from the other man. They'd tried to make sure he never felt ashamed for being compassionate towards another being and it was good to know they'd succeeded. She brought in the towels and handed them to Clark. "We'll need to see about getting his fingers and toes warmed to keep the tissue damage to a minimum." She moved efficiently around the bed, checking the young man's ears, nose, and toes as well as his other hand. All were red with the cold but didn't show signs of deep tissue damage, for which she was grateful. The young man whimpered as Clark bathed the chilled ears with a warm cloth. She ran her hand over his head, dislodging the hood. She was surprised when her palm met chilled skin rather than hair and she looked at Clark.

 

"No hair except eye lashes and eye brows," he said softly. "And those look synthetic."

 

She studied the young man, surprised at how vulnerable and young he looked lying against the dark blue sheets. "Oh, sweetie," she sighed, "what happened to you?"

 

~~~~~~

 

Red hair and kind eyes. Mama. Now he knew he was dead, or at least dying. Mama had said she'd see them again. He just hoped Jules understood why he couldn't wait. He'd tried. Really he had. But it was so warm now. Warm and safe and his angel was here, telling him it was going to be okay. And there wasn't any more pain. Not like before anyway.

 

His mind was fuzzy, disconnected. He felt hands moving over him, gentle and caring. Soft voices, male and female, were drifting in and out of his awareness. He wasn't cold anymore, and his fingers and toes no longer burned. But he was so very tired.

 

"Then just sleep, son," a male voice urged. "Go ahead and sleep. You're safe now."

 

He whimpered at the thought of sleeping, his body fighting to stay awake, alert. He had to be alert. Had to find a way to follow Jules, find a way home. He couldn't sleep.

 

A work roughened hand soothed over his forehead. "It's all right. Just relax. No one's going to hurt you, not while you're here."

 

//All you have to do is tell us where he went and we'll stop.//

 

He struggled. He couldn't tell them. He had to give Jules time to get away. He struggled against the hand urging him back. "No. Won't."

 

"Clark. I need you," the man called.

 

He struggled harder, needing to get away before the other came. He couldn't fight them both. He had to move, protect himself. He couldn't heal that fast, not if there wasn't time between the injuries. Keep Jules Safe! It's what other brothers did. He had to keep Jules safe.

 

//AJ! Come with me. We can do this.//

 

But he couldn't. He'd slow him down and he had to make sure Jules was safe.

 

Large hands caught him, pushing him back on to a bed. He fought, struggling as best he could but the hands were too strong, catching his flailing hands and pinning them. Holding him as if he were little more than a child.

 

Tears welled up in his eyes but he refused to let them fall. Big boys didn't cry. Ever! Even when the sky was falling and the scarecrow was chasing him, dragging him back to the fiery pit that use to be a field. He was burning up. The heat seared at his hands, his face. But he didn't cry. He'd make Father proud. He would. But he was so scared. And so tired. Please.

 

Fingers, cool and damp, brushed over his forehead, down his cheek and across his neck. He stilled, afraid. Then the familiar touch of his angel; caressing fingers rubbed over the soft spot between the ear and the jaw hinge then up and down the heavy bone behind his ear. He leaned into the touch, relaxing, know now he was safe. His angel would keep him safe. "my angel," he whispered. "you found me."

 

The fingers never stopped the oddly intimate caress. "You found us," his angel corrected. "And now you're safe. Relax and sleep. You're body needs sleep to heal."

 

He nodded, his eyes too heavy to even attempt to open them. Besides, he didn't need to see his angel to know he was there. The fingers drew away and he reached out blindly for them. "no," he pleaded, hating his own weakness. "don't go."

 

The bed dipped and he felt an otherworldly warmth settle against his side. "I'll be right here," his angel whispered, "So sleep now. I'll keep you safe."

 

He burrowed into the angel's warmth and allowed oblivion to take him.

 

~~~~~

 

Martha opened the backdoor and ushered in the cold and exhausted young EMT standing on her porch. "Kyle Duden, you did not need to come out here in this," she scolded. She took his snow dampened coat and ushered him into a chair, immediately going for the ever present hot water and home-made cocoa mix. "We told Barbara to send you home when you finally got in."

 

The blond blushed and gratefully accept the hot cocoa, taking a small sip before answering. "She told me that, Mrs. Kent. But with the weather turning, I was worried I might not be able to get here in the morning, so I decided to stop by just in case."

 

She smiled at Clark's year-mate. "We appreciate that, Kyle. But after the accident, we don't want you taxing yourself any more."

 

"No, ma'am. I understand that. But I had time to recharge on the trip back from Hutch, so I should be fine." He took a swallow of the hot cocoa, savoring the mild burn as it warmed him from the inside out. "Unless of course Clark's stray is at death's door. THEN it might take a bit more rest. Which, if you don't mind me crashing on the couch like I did during finals week in high school, won't be a problem." He grinned, looking up at Martha from under long, curling bangs. "Especially if you're making biscuits and gravy in the morning."

 

Martha chuckled. "You know you're welcome to stay, Kyle. And with the weather turning, you might want to anyway." She reached out and ruffled the damp hair. "And you'll have to argue with Jonathan about breakfast. He's already requested buttermilk pancakes."

 

"Pancakes are good!" Kyle answered eagerly, chuckling at the familiar raised eyebrow from his "second mom". He sobered and looked towards the stairs. "So, the guest room?"

 

Martha nodded. "Just like always."

 

Kyle took another long swallow of his hot cocoa before pushing back from the table and making his way up the stairs. He paused in the doorway to the guest room, shaking his head as he took in the scene. Jonathan Kent sat in the overstuffed chair, the book he'd been reading laying abandoned on his chest as he lightly snored, sound asleep where he sat. His blond hair, touched with silver gray at the temples, was almost as disheveled as Kyle's own. Clark Kent lay on the bed, also asleep, his newest stray curled up tight against his chest.

 

Clark's dark hair framed his classically handsome face in soft waves like Michelangelo's David come to life. Kyle sighed, mildly jealous of his friend's complete obliviousness to his own attractiveness and the affect it had on others. Shaking his head, he moved quietly into the room to study his friend's newest rescue.

 

The stray was… striking, was the only word Kyle could find for the other man, pale and obviously too thin, with high cheekbones and delicate features, accentuated by the complete lack of hair. The skin Kyle could see held the faint discoloration of old bruises and half-healed cuts and scrapes. The occasional shiver shook the thin frame and Kyle watched as each shiver stirred Clark into wakefulness *just* enough for his friend to soothe the stray back to sleep. The man clung to Clark, his long, bandaged fingers curled into Clark's shirt in a death grip, as if he was afraid Clark would disappear, and perhaps, in his mind, Clark might. Kyle couldn't help but wonder where Clark had found *this* one and what his story might be.

 

Hazel eyes blinked open and Kyle smiled at his friend. "Hey there. Leave it to you to find yet ANOTHER stray just before the holidays."

 

Clark stuck his tongue out at his friend, smiling. "Yeah, well. It keeps Christmas from being dull." He shifted the sleeping man gently and sat up so he could talk easier with Kyle without waking his guest. "I thought mom and dad said you wouldn't be by," he questioned. "He's not bad enough to risk you draining yourself."

 

"Relax, boy wonder," Kyle teased. "I'm just here to look and make sure everything's okay with the newest Kent foundling. Wouldn't do to have one kick off after you went to the trouble of saving him." He sat down in the chair beside the bed and smiled at Clark. "So what's this one's story?"

 

"No idea," Clark answered truthfully. "Found him near the old Sanderson place, hurt pretty bad and nearly naked. I couldn't just leave him there."

 

Kyle shook his head. "Only you, Clark." He tentatively reached out to touch one of the bandaged hands, centering himself and calling his Gift to the fore. "We have *so* got to find out what you did in a past life to get this Gift, my man. Not that we who have benefited from said Gift are complaining, mind you. But it's gotta be hell for you."

 

"He always said he wanted a lot of brothers and sisters," came a sleepy voice from across the room. "We figured this was his way of getting them." Jonathan smiled at the new comer. "Hey, Kyle. Should I make up the couch?"

 

Kyle smiled at Jonathan. "Well… it *is* snowing pretty heavy outside," he teased.

 

"He's just here for the pancakes, dad." Clark added with a grin.

 

"Well, your mom does make the best in the county."

 

"You're just biased, Jonathan," came Martha's laughing reply from the doorway.

 

Kyle rose and took the basin of warm water from Martha and moved back to the bedside. "No. He's right, Mrs. Kent. Best in the county."

 

Martha smiled, shaking her head at her "boys". "You three are going to give me a swelled head, if you keep this up." She stood behind Kyle and watched as he slowly unwrapped the bandaged hands. She looked at Clark. "Any change, sweetie?"

 

Clark shook his head. "He was really restless for a while when dad was watching him, but he calmed down when I came in." He ran tentative fingers over the man's cheek. "Once he curled up *on* me, he went straight to sleep. He hasn't moved and seems completely dead to the world." He pointed to the still sleeping figure. "And apparently his body needs it if he didn't wake up with all this."

 

Kyle nodded. "The human body is an incredible thing. It tends to know what it needs to heal better than *we* do sometimes." He finished unwrapping the fingers and stared at them in confusion. "I thought you said he had frostbite?" He took the red but healthy looking fingers in his own, examining them closely. "He looks fine to me." He looked up at Martha in confusion. Mrs. Kent wouldn't make such a mistake, heck, she'd help him when he was studying for his EMT certification and had known more than he could ever *hope* to.

 

Martha studied young man's hand, as confused at Kyle. "He did, Kyle; hard, cold skin, possible tissue damage. I was surprised he wasn't in the more advanced stages considering how long he must have been out in the cold." She looked up at Clark then to Jonathan. "Did he have any blisters or anything when you brought him to the truck?"

 

Jonathan shrugged but Clark tentatively nodded. "I think so. I was more concerned with getting his core temperature up, but I think there may have been a few."

 

Martha and Kyle looked at each other, then at the young man sleeping so peacefully against Clark's chest. Kyle took a deep breath and then touched his hand to the sleeping man's hand. His eyes widened as skin touched skin, his gaze flickering to the man's face and then back to where his fingers rested against pale skin. "Clark," he asked softly, "Are you feeling anything when I touch him?"

 

Clark shook his head. "No. He's relaxed. He might be just a touch warmer, but other than that no."

 

Kyle drew his hand back and fell back further into the chair, his eyes never leaving the still form.

 

"Kyle?" Jonathan asked, concerned.

 

"He's one of us," he whispered to Clark. "He has to be."

 

"What?" Clark looked down at the stranger in his arms then back up to the young healer. "How can he be one of us? The meteors only affected those who suffered prolonged exposure."

 

"Well," Kyle counted. "Maybe there was another shower somewhere else. Or maybe there's some *other* method out there that affects people the way the shower did. But, Clark," he looked down at the still figure resting so peacefully against Clark's chest, "I've never felt anything like this *except* from another Gifted."

 

~~~~ ~

 

The next several days passed in a blur of snow and work and tending to their ill guest. The snow finally stopped, but not before many of the side roads were impassable. Kyle stayed with the family, adding his healing touch where he could but mostly helping Martha with the stranger's bodily needs when Clark and Jonathan were working, Jonathan with the Police and Clark driving the sand trucks with the road cleaning crews.

 

The stranger did little more than sleep and heal, only stirring when Clark or Martha urged him to drink a bit of broth or water to keep him hydrated. Kyle sat with the other man as often as he could, saying that the man's energies were rejuvenating. He'd aided a bit in the healing, drawing off the spike of a fever on the second day that they traced to an unnoticed infection that the man's body was already fighting off. The healing had left him recharged rather than drained, which only convinced Kyle further that this man was another of the meteor Gifted.

 

"Kyle," Clark patiently countered, "we've tracked ALL the Smallville kids who were exposed to the meteors and he isn't one of them. Besides, we've never found one whose healing ability was altered like this."

 

"So, maybe we missed one," he said around a mouthful of pie. "I think we should call Chloe. If anyone could track this, it would be Miss Wall of Odd herself."

 

"She's too busy for this, Kyle," Clark chided, not bothering to tell Kyle he'd already called Chloe and been told she was away on assignment and wouldn't be back for several days. "Besides, he'll probably be able to tell us everything once he wakes up."

 

Kyle didn't look convinced but let the subject drop. That night, the stranger in question finally woke up completely, leaving them with more questions than answers.

 

~~~~

 

//JULES! Leave him ALONE!

- It's ok, AJ. It doesn't hurt that bad. Honest. I'll be ok.//

 

Hands touching, hurting, soothing? He had to get away, had to let Jules get away. He struggled to bring his mind into focus. And failed.

 

~ ~ ~

 

//There's safety in anonymity. I know you don't think you can be anonymous, but you can be. You're smart and resourceful and if anyone can stay unnoticed, AJ, it's you. You've had enough practice to be a master.//

 

Stay small and quiet. He doesn't yell if you're quiet. They can't find you if they don't know where to start looking.

 

~ ~ ~

 

//Wanna be like you.

- No you don't, squirt.

- Uh huh!

- No you don't. Trust me on this one.

- Do SO! Wanna be JUST like you when I grow up. You're special and I wuv you, AJ. AJ? Don't cry, AJ. Please don't cry.//

 

//Rub it in, Einstein. Not all of us can be rocket scientists.

- You're just jealous because I know where all the good geek sites and cheat codes are.

- Maaaybe. So, you're gonna show me where the ones are for Burn Out, right?

- Only if you let me play against you first.

- Bring it on, Big Bro, I can kick your ass even without the cheat codes. Always have, always will.//

 

Quiet. Stillness. They were finally alone.

 

//You have to go, Jules. It's your only chance. I'll be okay.

- Tired of me so soon?

- No. But the decor stinks and you can't even manage to hold up your end of the conversation anymore.

- Kinda hard to when your conversation partner keeps passing out.

- I'll talk to the management about that.//

 

Hands arranging his shattered leg as gently as possible while he fights back a scream. He can't go; he'd only slow them down; keep them from getting away. Struggling, but knowing what has to be done.

 

//It's you're only chance, baby brother. Take it, before they realize how stupid it was to leave us without a chaperone.

- Brian and Dom would never have made that mistake.//

 

A painful chuckle.

 

//Brian and Dom are gonna kick our asses when we finally make it home.

- Which is why you need to go. Find them and they'll find me.

- I'm not leaving you.

- Yes you are. You have to!//

 

Noises, feet on the stairs, creaking boards. They're coming.

 

//Come with me, AJ. We can do this!

- Don't argue with me! We don't have much time. Go!//

 

Scrambling with broken boards, an accidentally discovered and carefully hidden way out. Movement above, getting closer. Shoving away his lifeline to sanity, protecting him. Sending him off quietly and sealing his own fate with the push of a board.

 

//I'll be back for you, AJ.// muffled but understandable. He can almost feel the heat of a reassuring hand against his back… impossible through the wood, but there, none the less.

 

//Be safe, Jules,// he whispers, the panic of being alone slowly closing in. Angry voices. Pain. New voices and even more pain. But the other is safe. They tell him by their questions, their anger. He can't help but smile. Then they leave him alone. Completely alone in the cold and the dark. The stink of his own fear and waste and blood thick in his nose.

 

"Don't leave me," his voice broken, torn by fear and pain.

 

"No one's leaving. You're safe."

 

His eyes opened, taking in the unfamiliar, cheery room. Blue gingham curtains muted the light coming in from the wide windows. A soft, warm blanket covered his nude body, a body that no longer hurt.

 

"Would you like some water?"

 

He turned towards the voice. The man was older, with blonde hair shot through with silver-gray. His eyes were kind, gentle and he relaxed as the man leaned closer.

 

"I'm Jonathan Kent," he said. "You're in my home and you're safe. My son and I found you four days ago and brought you here. You'd been injured but you're healing nicely. And I promise you you're safe with us."

 

He nodded, eyes darting warily to the glass of clear liquid in the man's hand. The man, Jonathan, smiled and moved closer, easing his body up gently and holding the glass while he drank thirstily. Too soon the glass taken away.

 

"Not too much," he said kindly, "we don't want you getting sick."

 

He was helped back down to the pillows and was stunned by how weak he was. He met the ma… Jonathan's, eyes. "What happened?"

 

Jonathan shook his head. "We were hoping you could tell us."

 

He thought, trying to capture the shattered fragments of dreams and visions he knew he'd had before. They slipped like mercury through his fingers. He fought to find them, knowing they were important, growling in frustration when they slipped further and further away. A hand to his arm pulled him from the exhausting circle of his musing.

 

"Easy. It's all right. It'll come." Jonathan smiled at him reassuringly. "Let's start simpler. What's your name, and we'll go from there?"