WIP: You Can Call Me Al (Part Thirteen) (original) (raw)

So...a long, long time ago I started this story. You guys remember? *crickets chirp* Uh, yeah. I guess that can happen when you don't work on something for, like, FIVE MONTHS. But, anyway, here's the next part, and I hope to finish up the whole thing soon. Just two more chapters to go, woohoo!

Title: You Can Call Me Al
Fandom: Smallville
Pairing: Clark/Lex
Rating: NC-17
Category: AU, Romance
Summary: Lex gets lost, and Clark claims him.
Links to Previous Parts:
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight
Part Nine
Part Ten
Part Eleven
Part Twelve

Part Thirteen:

You Can Call Me Al
By Lenore

Part Thirteen

Geez, Smallville, your timing sucks. Clark isn't sure how many times Lois said this to him over the years, although it could conceivably number in the millions. Clark's reaction was always the same, silent, fuming indignation, certain that if Lois spent half her life out turning back tidal waves and capturing criminal masterminds she, too, might be late every now and then for a big story.

Later, though, he would go home and start thinking about it again--Lois' digs always had a strange sticking power--and his entire ill-fated romantic history with Lana would inevitably come flashing back to him. He certainly chose all the wrong moments there, only ever managing to ask Lana out when she was freshly in love with Whitney, going through an independent phase or actually Tina Greer.

"Do you think my timing sucks?" he once asked Chloe in a fit of dejection.

"Maybe you just have really bad luck," she said with a pat on the hand.

The first time Clark tries to tell Al the truth, he spends the entire morning out in the fields practicing. See, I did this thing, and it wasn't right, but I don't regret it. Do you know what I'm trying to say here? As trial runs go, it's not exactly a staggering success, but Clark still heads inside at lunchtime fully determined to come clean about everything.

He figures it's best just to get it out there, not give himself an opportunity to wimp out. So he sweeps through the door, blurting as he goes, "I'm not your husband. I only said I was so I could get you out of the hospital and keep your father from sending you back to the asylum. Not that you're crazy or anything. Neither am I, I swear. And maybe we didn't start out right, but I really do love you, and I want to marry you. And I hope you don't want to kill me."

He takes a deep breath, ready to plead for understanding, and then realizes that the house is suspiciously quiet.

"Um, Al?"

There's no answer, but Clark tramps through all the rooms anyway, just to make sure. He ends up back where he started, aimlessly glancing around, no idea what to do now that his effort at honesty has been thwarted, all the air gone out of his resolve like a flat tire.

When the door swings open only a few seconds later, it makes him jump like a skittish cat, his heart all but doing cartwheels in his chest.

"I have something I need to tell you," he says with messy urgency before Al can even get inside.

"Funny," Al says, with a bemused look, "I was just about to say the same thing to you."

Clark can't keep his feet still. "Me first. I called it."

Al cocks his head to the side. "Oh, but my news involves money, so I'd say that puts me at the head of the line." He holds up a check. "Look what came in the mail."

It's not every day they get a windfall--or, really, any day--and Clark's determination not to let the conversation get derailed goes careening off the tracks. He reaches for the check, stares at it like he's never seen a number with zeroes before. "That's...more than I was expecting."

Al takes it back. "Yes, and we have the irrigation system that needs to be expanded and new equipment for the winery to buy and a stack of bills to pay." He folds the check in half with an air of thrifty caution. "Now, what did you want to tell me?"

Clark takes a deep breath, opens his mouth, but before he can get a word out, Al's reserve melts away and he grabs Clark's arm in his excitement. "We can finally afford a decent coffee maker!" Then he collects himself and shakes his head. "Sorry, sorry. You were saying?"

"I, uh--" But Al has broken out in one of his rare, brilliant smiles, and Clark can no more destroy that happiness than he could go on a rampage in a museum with a can of spray paint. "I fixed the toilet. You won't have to jiggle the handle anymore." He smiles weakly.

Al hesitates, waiting to see if Clark has something else to tell him, something that might actually qualify as news. "Well, that's...nice. I'm a big supporter of properly functioning plumbing."

Clark feels like he's just been patted on the head.

Al tucks the check into his pocket. "I'm going to whip up some lunch, and I'll stop by the bank this afternoon."

Clark rubs at his temple. Should honesty really be this hard? He has to wonder.

He waits for another opportunity, but first the vines need tending. A big rainstorm has Clark on mold patrol nearly round the clock for several days on end. Then all sorts of other things happen. Al declares he can't go another day without the toaster being fixed and the Ingrams down the road call needing some help with their yard work, right away, 'cause Sarah Jean's finally gettin' married, thank God, and the wedding's gonna be out back and it's gotta happen before she pops, if you know what we mean. There are far too many excuses during the average day to avoid the conversation, Clark realizes, and finally he decides to act like a grownup and choose a time when he knows they won't be interrupted.

In bed a few nights later, he takes a deep breath, "Al?"

"Yeah?"

The lights are off, and maybe Clark's a coward, but it just seems so much easier to tell the truth if he doesn't have to see the look on Al's face when he hears it. Clark curls up behind him, kisses his shoulder. "There's something I've been putting off, something I really need to tell you--" It registers then that Al is already tense, even before Clark has launched into his tale of hijacked husbands.

"Hey," he pulls Al closer, "what's wrong?"

Al shakes his head. "You can't do anything about it."

Clark rubs his hand in circles over his hip. "Tell me anyway."

Al lets out his breath. "I lost my wedding ring. When I was in the ocean."

"Hey," Clark smiles in the darkness, "that's easy to fix."

"No, it isn't, Clark. We need to concentrate all our resources on the vineyard right now. We can't afford any luxuries."

"Let me worry about that, okay?"

"But--"

Clark makes his voice soft, "Trust me."

It takes a moment, but Al finally nods, the tension draining out of him. He turns on his side to face Clark. "Now what did you want to tell me?"

Clark's throat tightens. "Al, I've done something--" He can feel Al watching him in the dim light, waiting, and he crumples like cheap aluminum siding in a hail storm. "I forgot our anniversary, and I'm really sorry."

Al frowns. "It's not for another two months."

A tad too late Clark remembers the forged marriage license. "Our wedding anniversary, yes. But I mean the anniversary of," he thinks frantically, "the day you asked me to marry you."

A pause, and then Al asks, with equal parts surprise and interest, "I did the proposing?"

Clark nods. "Sure did. You planned quite an evening, too. And surprised me with it. Since then, we've always celebrated the day, and this year it was my turn to surprise you. But with everything that's happened, I forgot. And I'm sorry."

Al rubs his arm. "That's okay, Clark. Maybe this year, we should just--"

Clark cuts him off with a kiss. "Be packed and ready to leave first thing Saturday morning."

"But--"

Clark kisses him again, more persuasively. "Be ready."

Al snuggles closer, and Clark holds on to him a little desperately. Now he has two problems, what to plan and how to break the news. He really isn't too good at this whole honesty business.

At least, he does have an idea how to pay for it all. The warmer the weather gets the more the phone rings with job offers, roofing and landscaping and house painting, stuff that pays well. Clark says yes to everyone who calls, lines up enough work to foot the entire bill for their weekend away, along with Al's ring. Of course, Clark knows from the get-go that the only way to get it all done in time is to use his speed, just a little. He reminds himself that he's doing it for Al, and for the first time since his parents died, relying on his abilities doesn't feel wrong.

He goes over his battle plan as he works, and after a while, he starts to convince himself it's actually a good thing he was such a loser about confessing before. In certain frames of mind, Clark could probably sell himself the Brooklyn Bridge. He works on his agenda for the weekend as he hammers stray roof tiles. He figures he can spoil Al a little, show him how much he cares about him, and when the moment's right, he'll tell the truth, about Al's identity and the trouble with his father, how they actually met, and why Clark did what he did. Then he'll give Al the ring and tell him he'd like them to be married for real.

The more he goes over it the more foolproof it seems. By the time Friday rolls around, Clark has a pocket full of money and his head filled with happy endings.

Saturday morning, they set out before dawn, Al still yawning as they climb into the truck.

"Where are we going?" he asks and keeps on asking it, every five minutes or so.

Clark just shakes his head. "You'll see when we get there."

"Corvallis," Al conjectures when they get on the Interstate.

"Portland, right?" he says when they pass the exit that would have taken them to Corvallis.

Clark knows Al isn't going to stop guessing until he either figures it out or they pull up at their destination, and that makes him smile.

Al narrows his eyes. "Are you laughing at me?"

Clark shakes his head

"Then what's that smirk on your face?" Al asks, offended.

Clark's smile just gets bigger.

A few hours later, they cross into Washington, and Al proclaims, "Seattle!"

Clark shrugs.

"You really are infuriating, you know," Al tells him. "If I guess correctly, you're supposed to tell me."

"When did that become the rule?"

"It's always been the rule!" Al says testily. "Everyone knows that."

"Must be one of those things we never learned on the farm." Clark grins at him. "You'll just have to wait and see when we get there."

Al crosses his arms over his chest as if he's been challenged, and the closer they get to Seattle the more smug his expression becomes. When they pass the city limits, his body language practically screams, "I told you so!"

They drive past a sign with directions to Safeco Field, and Al asks, "Baseball?" When the ballpark comes into view, he says, "I knew it!"

Clark takes the exit for it and follows the traffic. He's never actually been to Safeco before, but it's not hard to find. A parking spot is trickier, and they drive around for a good twenty minutes at least before they find a lot with empty spaces.

Al bounds out of the truck, his face bright with anticipation. Clark reaches for his hand, and it feels so natural, so right, the two of them, that Clark is more convinced than ever it can't just end, even if he has been the world's biggest idiot.

When they get close enough to the ballpark to read the marquee, Al squeezes Clark's hand in appreciation. It's the Mariners against the Rockets, an inter-league match-up, and luckily for Clark, Pete's company supplied the pipes for the field's new drainage system. He made a few calls and was able to get them seats.

"They're not that good," Pete had apologized. "Both teams are leading their divisions, and it's the first time they've ever played each other. The whole series is sold out."

Clark had assured him that seats in the upper deck would be perfect. It was a risk just going to the game, and if they sat too close to the field, someone might very well notice the Rockets' owner. There had been no story in the national press about Lex Luthor being missing, Clark had kept a careful eye out for it. So who knew what excuse Lionel had concocted to explain away his son's absence? Clark wants those lies exposed eventually, but not before he's had the chance to prepare Al for it.

Clark hands Al his ticket, and they pass through the gate, climb the stairs up to their seats.

"I didn't think there were any tickets left for this," Al says, looking both pleased and kind of worried. "Did you get them from a scalper? I hope it wasn't too expen--"

Clark kisses away the rest of the sentence. "Enjoy." He pulls out Al's Rockets cap hidden beneath his jacket. "Just try not to get into any fights."

Al breaks into a somewhat malicious smile as he pulls on his cap, "I'm sure these Mariners fans will be too depressed by the bottom of the first to make any trouble."

Clark slips his arm around Al's shoulders and settles in to watch the game. Occasionally, he glances around, just to make sure no one is giving Al--Lex--any funny looks, but everyone's focus is either on the field or their beer and nachos. It's not the butt-kicking Al was predicting. Neither team gets particularly sparkling pitching out of its starters, and both lineups go to town on the somewhat depleted bullpens.

"Whoever said Safeco is a pitcher's park must never actually have been here," Al remarks dryly after the Mariners' third home run.

Clark enjoys watching Al almost as much as he does the game. He can only imagine what kind of owner Lex Luthor must be. He certainly is a vicious fan.

Happily, the Rockets rally in the top of the eighth and bring in their closer to hold the lead for two innings. Baseball is an everyday game, and win some lose some is its weary philosophy. Clark's just glad it's a win-some kind of night for their team on their special occasion.

The game ends, and they take their time leaving the park, trailing behind the crowd of people in a rush to make it home. When they get back to the truck, Al hugs Clark, and they linger over a kiss.

"Thank you," Al says softly. "I don't know for a fact, but I'm pretty certain this is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me."

Clark touches his face, looks into his eyes, and he's sad to suspect that this might actually be the case, that this man has never been appreciated the way he should be.

Clark kisses him again, slowly, thoughtfully. When he pulls back, he says with a smile, "I'm glad you enjoyed the game, but this celebration isn't over yet."

"What--" Al starts to ask.

Clark smiles mysteriously. "You'll see when we get there."

It's only a short drive from the ballpark to the hotel downtown, a small inn that Pete recommended. "It's got that old world charm," he'd said. "Al will love it."

They carry their bags inside and check in. The lobby has soft buttery yellow walls, the color not flat or harsh, but layered, complex. Clark squints at it and thinks, Venetian plaster. From the appreciative way Al is glancing around it seems as if this was the right choice, indeed. Clark makes a note to buy Pete a case of his favorite beer when they get back home.

The clerk at the front desk hands Clark their key, and they head upstairs. The first thing Al does when he get into the room is to head for the window to inspect the view. "I can see all the way across the Sound."

Clark goes to check out the bathroom. Not that he would actually admit it to anyone, but he kind of enjoys the little bottles of flowery-smelling stuff hotels always give out. When he lays eyes on the tub, he calls to Al, "You've got to come see this."

The Jacuzzi is built for two, surrounded by softly colored decorative tiles, a pile of plush towels stacked up beside it like an invitation.

There's a knock at their room, and Clark smiles. "Be right back."

He goes to answer the door, and a waiter is standing there, an ice bucket of champagne and crystal flutes in hand, a little surprise for Al that Clark arranged beforehand. The waiter looks around, asks in a whisper, "Do you want me to set it up for you?"

Clark shakes his head. "I'll take care of it."

He slips the waiter a tip and takes the champagne, tries to open the bottle as quietly as possible, and pours two glasses. He heads back to the bathroom, and Al has already started the water and pulled his shirt loose from his pants. He doesn't look exactly surprised when Clark hands him the glass of champagne, but he does look happy.

"To us," Clark says.

"And our future," Al adds.

They chink glasses and take a sip. Clark feels the cold-sparkle of the champagne on his tongue, the heat of it against the back of his throat. The only other time he's had champagne was at his parents' twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, just a sip that his mom slipped him even though he wasn't of age yet, a stolen taste of someone else's celebration. It feels different now, like this happiness is truly his to enjoy, even if it really shouldn't seem that way.

Al sets down his glass and wraps his arms around Clark and starts kissing like he doesn't plan to stop anytime soon. Clark holds on to him at the waist and enjoys the way the solid warmth of Al's body just seems to sink into his bones.

Clark nods his head toward the Jacuzzi, raising an eyebrow in suggestion. "Our dinner reservation isn't until eight."

"That's good." Al starts to undo the buttons of Clark's shirt. "Because we really should get cleaned up first."

Clark strings sharp kisses over Al's neck, fumbles with his belt, pushes down his pants. Al pulls blindly at Clark's shirt, trying to get it off him. They're so tangled up in each other it's a wonder they even make it into the tub. Water goes sloshing over the side, puddling on the tile, as they reach for one another, move together. By the time they finally get out, there's a veritable lake on the floor. Clark throws some towels on it, and they dress to go downstairs.

The hotel's dining room is a little fancy for Clark's taste, huge crystal chandeliers, walls covered in cream colored silk, dark mahogany wainscoting, a maitre d' in a tuxedo standing at the entrance like a sentinel. Still, this is Al's night, and the restaurant is rated four stars. Clark figures it's just the right amount of fancy for him.

In fact, Al seems to thoroughly enjoy himself, ecstatic over the presentation of the house specialty, an architectonic arrangement of seared tuna and…other stuff that Clark doesn't quite recognize.

"The chef here trained under Alfred Portale in New York," Al tells him, as if Clark is metropolitan enough to draw some meaning from this.

Their waiter departs with their order, and the sommelier approaches with the wine list and a recommendation. Al's forehead wrinkles when he sees the price, but Clark just smiles brightly and says, "That sounds wonderful." He reaches for Al's hand. "Special occasion, remember?"

When the wine comes, it's just as wonderful as promised. Clark and Al savor it thoughtfully, and when their eyes meet, it's clear they're both thinking the same thing.

Al smiles. "This will be our wine someday, at someone else's celebration."

Clark returns the smile and leans in for a kiss. The wine tastes even sweeter on Al's lips. Their future together has never felt more certain.

The food comes, and it is just as amazing as Al said it would be. They share things off each other's plates, and talk about what they'll do when they get home, and Clark has a realization that's so operatically clear it rings in his head. _This_…this is all he'll ever need, in his whole life.

By the time dessert arrives, the expression on Al's face is piercingly soft, a warm mingling of satisfaction and happiness. Clark takes a deep breath and pulls out the ring box, his palms so sweaty he has to wipe them surreptitiously on his pants.

He takes Al's hand in his. "There's something I need to tell you."

Clark even wants to tell him, but the sad fact is that he's just going to be himself and no one else for the rest of his life, and words aren't his friends. They refuse to do anything to help him now.

Al comes to the rescue, smiling fondly. "I love you too, Clark."

Clark just stares, slack-jawed, and Al smiles with amusement, leans across the table to kiss him. "What? You were expecting something different?" He eyes the ring box. "So…is that for me?"

"Oh," Clark starts, "yes. I--" He takes out the ring, slips it onto Al's finger. The entire evening has gotten away from him, a master of bad timing, just like Lois always said, but there is still one thing he can manage, "Will you marry me?" And then he has a flash of panic, like he's given something away. "Again, I mean. Marry me again."

Al gets this look on his face, and if Clark lives for a thousand years, he knows he'll never forget it, the melting, yearning, love in Al's eyes. Al opens his mouth, but now it's his turn to lose his grip on language. He looks at Clark almost helplessly.

"Will you?" Clark asks again, gently, kissing Al's hand.

Al nods at last. "You know I will." His voice is hoarse. "I'd like it to be at our house, in our garden, with all our friends there."

Clark smiles. "I'd like that, too."

Al stands up then, holds out his hand. "I think we should finish celebrating upstairs, don't you?"

Clark rises, slips his arm around his waist. In the elevator, after everyone else has gotten off and they're alone at last, he whispers in Al's ear, "I've never loved anyone the way I love you."

The elevator stops, and they walk down the hall. At their room, Clark takes out the key. Al presses to his side, warm and delicious-smelling, and Clark's hand shakes as he unlocks the door. Inside, Al is on him before he can even think about what he needs to say, body to body, mouth against mouth, the momentum of Al's need pushing Clark backwards, tumbling him onto the bed.

They kiss, Al's restless hands insinuating themselves beneath Clark's clothes, and Clark promises himself, promises whatever God may exist, that he'll tell Al the truth. He really will. Al slides out of his jacket, undoes the first button of his shirt, and just that little triangle of bare skin sends a violent jolt of want all through Clark. He closes his eyes. I will tell him, he thinks as he reaches for Al.

Just as soon as we get home.

***

The next day, they order breakfast from room service and eat in bed, leisurely, lounging against each other, reading the paper, kissing between sticky bites of strawberry jam on croissant. They get dressed and check out. They're both quiet, reflective on the way out of the city, a feeling of connection between them that makes it seem as if they're touching even when they aren't. The drive is uneventful, not much traffic out on a lazy Sunday. Near the Oregon border, they stop for gas. Clark mans the pump, and Al heads inside to the bathroom. He comes back with a bottle of water in the crook of his arm and a Pepsi for Clark.

Clark kisses him as thank you. He's not sure a soft drink should make him feel so cared for it almost hurts, but then, that's just the thing about love. It takes the ordinary and turns it into a gift.

The trip home seems shorter, or maybe it's just that Clark feels so certain that they have time. They turn off the highway when they reach Blue Cove, onto Old Jim Jarwell Road, and when they go around the curve in the road and their land comes into view, it feels like they're back where they belong. Clark pulls the truck into the driveway, and he whistles as he carries in their bags. He sets them down in their room, while Al goes to the computer to check their email. Clark gives him a kiss as he passes by the desk on his way to the kitchen.

"You want a beer?"

Al nods. "We got a couple of replies to our ad looking for a master vintner. They sent resumes and references."

"Great," Clark says. "Let's have a look at it."

He whistles some more as he pulls two Coronas out of the fridge. It feels good to be home.

When he hears the knock at the door, he calls to Al, "That's probably Pete. He knew we were getting back tonight."

There's rustling, Al getting up from the desk, going to the door. Clark expects to hear Pete's voice, but there's only quiet.

He calls out again, "Al?"

No answer, so he goes to see for himself, and then stops like he's been hit by lightening. Lionel Luthor is leaning against the mantel of their very own living room, and Al--Lex--is staring at him, dumbstruck.

"Clark, my father's come to visit us. He's--" Astonishment dawns in his face. "I remember!" There's hopefulness mixed with confusion, and then the memories just start spilling out of him, "You're Lionel Luthor, and you are my father. I'm-- I'm Lex Luthor. I remember it all now. I live in Metropolis, and I work for LuthorCorp, and…" His face lights up. "I have money. Oh, thank God. All the money we'll ever need." He turns to Clark, and his voice gets more excited. "We can do all the things we wanted. Get the winery up and running. Release our first vintage. Oh, Clark! We don't have to worry anymore."

For a moment, his face shines with relief, with perfect happiness, but it doesn't last long.

He frowns. "And I remember you." He looks Clark dead in the eye, his forehead wrinkling. "You came to build the closet, and we--" His frown deepens. "But my father--" He looks at Lionel, then back at Clark, the pieces starting to come together. "He threw you off the yacht and your tools--" He stares at Clark. "Why did you take me in after that? Why did you give me a home? Make me your husband. Why would you do that?"

His eyes bore into Clark, and then realization starts to form on his face, and he looks like he wants to be sick.

Desperation rallies Clark at last. He takes a step toward Al--_Lex_--tries to reach for his hand, tries to explain, "It's not what you think. I never meant to--"

But Lex's voice has frozen over, "It's hardly a novel idea, of course." He stares at the ring on his finger. "I've already had several wives who married me for my money with widowhood in mind. But the way you executed the plan...that was quite original. Very creative."

Horror dawns slowly in Clark's mind as he makes sense of that, and then he frantically shakes his head. "No! I swear to God. I never wanted to hurt you."

Lex takes a step back, and Clark tries to follow, tries to brush Lex's arm with his fingers, something, anything, to make him understand. Lionel, who had been content to watch all this time, speaks up at last, "We know perfectly well what you were planning, Mr. Kent." He steps between them. "You'll be hearing from the authorities, as well as our attorneys." He puts his hand on Lex's shoulder. "Come on, son. Let's get you out of this," he wrinkles his nose, "place."

Clark can't stop shaking his head, can't believe this is really happening. "No, please. Don't go. Don't leave me, Al."

Fury sparks in his eyes, and he yells, "That's not my name!"

"Lex," Clark begs feebly, against all hope.

Lionel drapes his arm more firmly around Lex's shoulders. "It's time to go, son. Time to get you home."

"I just need to--" Lex looks around, his expression both searching and lost, but finally he shakes his head. "No, there's nothing here that's mine."

Lionel guides him to the door, out of the house. Clark follows on their heels, trying to make Lex listen, "Please! You can't go with him. Even if you don't want to stay with me. Lex! You've got to believe me. Your father doesn’t care about you. He just wants something you have. Don't you remember? It's why you were on the yacht. He was keeping you there--"

"That's quite enough, young man," Lionel snaps at him, a hard look in his eyes. "No one is interested in more of your lies."

But there's a flash of hesitation in Lex's expression, and Clark surges forward, trying to get to him. Lionel sees the faltering in Lex's face too, and he nods to the bodyguards, Anthony and Ivan, the same ones who threw Clark off the yacht. They crowd in on Clark, force him back, long enough for Lionel to hustle Lex into the car.

"No!" Clark shouts helplessly. "Don't go with them!"

But Lex is already locked inside. The bodyguards jump into the front seat, and the limo tears away.

Clark runs down the driveway, yelling after it, "No! Stop!"

The limo speeds off. Clark stands there at the bottom of the driveway watching Lex disappear from his life, straining his super human eyes, still trying to catch a glimpse of him long after he's gone.