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

I spent all day at the client's today. Blech! The only good news is that we finished early, and I got home in time to enjoy some of this glorious afternoon. Yay! And to post the next part of my story.

Title: You Can Call Me Al
Pairing: Clark/Lex
Rating: This part PG, eventually 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:

You Can Call Me Al
By Lenore

Part Seven

It takes less than a day of marriage for Clark to develop a bone-deep sympathy for the husbands he sees at the mall, the ones he's always kind of smiled about before, with their well-schooled "I'm listening" expressions, and their careful "whatever you think, honey" answers. Truly, capitulation can be the better part of valor.

His initiation into the fraternity of perpetually nodding husbands begins early the next morning. He wakes up at the usual ungodly hour and tiptoes around, trying to let Al sleep in, figuring he needs his rest. When he tries the bathroom door, though, it's locked, and a moment later, out comes Al, already showered, dressed in plaid pants and a shirt with piping around the pocket that he's apparently trying to be brave about.

"I couldn't find my toothbrush," Al informs him. "Do you have any idea where it is?"

"Um--" Of course he does, at the store, where he forgot to buy it. "Well--"

"I'm taking that as a no," Al cuts him off with a brisk air, as if he has things to do and no time to waste on Clark's stammering. "We'll need to pick one up when we go out today. Brushing your teeth with your finger is pretty much like not brushing at all."

"Sure--"

"And some soap, too. I used the last of it."

"Oh, okay--"

"We should also do something about that medicine cabinet. Of course, what it really needs is a sledgehammer taken to it, but I suppose I can settle for lining the shelves. That'll be something of an improvement, at least."

Clark nods. Al in a mood to accomplish things is an irresistible force. "Whatever you think."

He takes his turn in the bathroom and finds that showering without soap is pretty much like not showering at all. He gets dressed and cobbles together breakfast, eggs that he hopes aren't too far past their expiration date and toast he manages to singe around the crust even though he tries hard to keep an eye on it. He's fixed everybody's toaster in Blue Cove, it seems, except his own.

Al sniffs cautiously at his sunny-side-ups before digging in. "Don't forget we need to go to the grocery store." He bites into a piece of toast, grimacing as he gets a mouthful of char, and adds, "Maybe frozen food would be a good option for us."

"Faulty heating element," Clark mutters.

Al smiles faintly, as if to say, "a likely excuse."

They polish off their eggs, and Al leans back in his chair, giving Clark the speculative once-over. Clark braces for the next barrage of questions with a mix of curiosity and dread, but Al surprises him.

"I was thinking we could start working on the house. I assume that's what we were planning once I moved out here. And if this is my life," he casts a somewhat despairing glance around the room, "I need to make the best of it."

Clark unclenches, takes a deep, relieved breath. "Oh, sure. I mean, we can do that once you're up to it. For now, you should probably--"

'Nonsense." Al stands up from the table. "I feel perfectly fine."

"Don't you think we should at least call Doc Hadley, just to make sure--"

Al shoots him a flinty look, his mouth a hard line of determination, and that is pretty much the end of that discussion.

Clark reports for duty in the living room and is quickly cast in the role of hired hand, holding up pictures while Al stands at a distance, tapping his fingers on his chin and contemplating the effect, heaving furniture from point A to B to C, Al directing him like an iron-fisted maestro with a "vision."

Of course, Clark could heave furniture all day and not even begin to feel it. The tedious part is remembering to strain and puff and struggle. Still, even a hired hand has his limits. When Al has him move the old trunk into every room in the house, even upstairs where the space is so empty it rings with nothingness, then finally settles on the exact spot where it was to begin with, in front of the couch, as a makeshift coffee table, Clark puts his hands on his hips and flashes him a look that's pure exasperation.

Al shrugs. "You just have to try different things until you find the right place," he informs Clark loftily.

One thing does become perfectly clear as they work: the problem with the house hasn't been the house at all, but the homeowner. Clark has treated the place pretty much like a shack since he got there. Al, on the other hand, finds one fascinating architectural detail after another.

"This molding is really rather beautiful now that I look at it," he says, stopped beneath the arched entrance of the living room, perusing the plasterwork. "Light. Delicate. Late Victorian maybe. Do you know when the house dates to?"

"You mean, besides a long time ago?" Clark offers unhelpfully.

Al sighs, but doesn't let Clark's lack of appreciation deter him. "I'll do some research at the library. Or maybe there's a local historical society that might have some information."

He soon finds more treasures from the house's past: mahogany paneling beneath "this atrocious 1970's Ramada Inn wallpaper," built-in bookshelves that "just need the cheap white paint stripped off them," the possibility of a fireplace in the kitchen that "some philistine had the temerity to wall in."

Even the windows delight him. "Did you notice the original glass?" he points out, as they're washing them.

Clark tilts his head. "Is that why it's wavy? And has all those little bubbles in it?"

"It was blown by hand," Al says with far more excitement than wavy glass really deserves, at least in Clark's opinion. "It'll add a lot of value to the house."

"Really?" Clark scratches his head. "You don't think we should replace it? I mean, it is old and all--"

"It's not old," Al informs him. "It's antique."

This becomes a familiar refrain as the morning wears on.

Clark does have to admit, though, that the place is starting to look better. He leaves Al studying the living room, drawing a floor plan on a scrap of paper, and starts to carry things they don't need everyday up to the attic, just to get them out of the way. When he comes back down, he finds Al crouched in a corner, pulling at the carpet, on the trail of yet another discovery.

He motions to Clark. "Take a look at this."

Clark leans down to see. "Pretty bad, huh?"

Al gives him a look like he's crazy. "We've got the original floors under this chartreuse shag nightmare. See the wide planks, the distinctive grain, these marks." He points. "They're hand-planed." He pulls the carpet back even farther. "I don't see any damage, either. We'll have to take all the carpet up to be sure, of course. But if we're lucky, they'll just need some sanding and refinishing."

"Well…that's good," Clark says, a little uncertainly.

Al nods. "It is." His forehead wrinkles. "How do I know all this, anyway?" He looks to Clark, an eyebrow lifted in inquiry.

"Well," Clark says, "you just know a little bit about a lot of things."

"I do?"

Clark nods. "Sure. You're a very curious person." He figures that's a safe assumption about someone whose primary interest in business is research and development. And then he embellishes a little, "That's one of the first things I noticed about you, when I came to your place to do the work on the closet. You had all these books and magazines stacked everywhere, and I thought, here's somebody who really thinks about things. I should get to know him better."

Al takes in this little detail, mulling it over, a look of interest on his face. As they start to pull up the rest of the carpet, he peppers Clark with more questions.

"Is Al short for Allen?"

"Alex."

"Where was I born?"

"In Metropolis. That's why you're such a big Rockets fan."

"Did I go to college there?"

Clark nods. "Met U. Same as me. Although we weren't there at the same time. You're a few years older."

"How old?"

"Thirty-four."

"And how long have we been married?"

"Two years."

"Before I came out here, what did I do for a living?"

"Well--" Clark pretends to struggle with a stubborn staple while he frantically runs through options, coming up with nothing. "You've done a lot of things. You're really, you know, versatile."

"Can you be a little more specific?" Al persists.

"Well-- You worked for your father for a while. Not that it, um, really worked out too well." He gets to his feet. "Hey, why don't we carry this old carpet out to the porch, and I'll take it to the dump later?"

This distraction gives him all of a two-minute reprieve. On the way back inside, Al picks right up where he left off, "What was my major in college? Did I get good grades? Why didn't working for my father work out?"

"Um, well--"

"And another thing. We've emptied pretty much all the boxes, and I haven't seen any pictures or personal papers. No marriage license. Or wedding pictures. Snapshots from vacations. We do have such things, don't we?"

Clark claps his hands together. "You know what? We'd better get going if we're going to do that shopping. I'll look for our papers later. I promise."

"But--" Al starts to protest as Clark hustles him out the door.

"Just remind me."

There's a Target in the next town over, and on the way, Clark stops at the Taj Mahal Burger to get them lunch

Al regards the Rajah's Surprise that Clark orders for him rather dubiously, "You realize, of course, that Hindus don't eat beef." He glances around at the décor, at the fresco of elephants and palanquins, the willowy Indian princesses with the rubies in the middle of their foreheads. "Do you think this is supposed to be an ironic comment of some sort?"

"Could be," Clark tells him, just so he'll have some peace of mind.

It seems to work, because he eats his lunch, despite whatever hesitations he may have about its cultural appropriateness. Back in the truck, he writes out a shopping list on one of the pink napkins. He's just finishing up as they pull into the parking lot.

They head inside, and Al stops in his tracks, wrinkling his nose. "What is that?"

Clark takes a whiff. "Plastic. And lots of it."

He grabs a cart and pilots it, but Al is clearly the captain of their shopping expedition. He leads the way down various aisles, picking out toiletries, and then makes a beeline for the men's department.

He stops in front of a display of underwear. "Boxers or briefs?" he asks, half to himself, half to Clark.

"Well, you're kind of --"

"You're going to say versatile, aren't you?" Clark nods sheepishly, and Al just shakes his head. "Do you have any idea how unhelpful that is?"

He scans the labels of the various brands, although exactly what he's looking for Clark has no idea. Underwear is underwear, as far as he's concerned.

"How bad off are we anyway?" Al asks casually, as he checks the prices. "Is it this or food for the week?" Clark puts on his denial face, but Al waves him off. "I've seen the unopened bills. Don't try to tell me we don't have money problems."

"It's not dire," Clark insists. Under Al's pointed scrutiny, he adds, "Yet. Just get what you need. It'll be fine."

Al gives him a measuring look, as if deciding whether that's just pride talking, and then lays in a meager supply of underwear and socks. He wanders over to the racks of clothes, stops in front of a table of button-up shirts, lingers by the khakis, before dragging himself over to the Levi's.

"I should get something practical," he says half-heartedly. "Something farmy."

He glances over at Clark's battered, field-ready attire, and sighs as he pulls out a pair of jeans, the kind nobody wears without washing them at least a hundred times first, deep, inky indigo, so stiff they could stand up by themselves. He holds them up to himself and looks so pained that Clark has to go to the rescue.

"That's not really your style," he tells him. Truly an understatement when he thinks back to the sleek, impeccable man starring in the Planet's society pages. "I'm the jeans and t-shirt guy in the family. You go for a tidier look."

Relief flashes across Al's face as he throws down the jeans and returns to his rightful place amongst the oxfords. Clark has to turn away, to hide the grin he can't quite contain.

Al picks out a modest assortment of shirts and pants, and Clark asks him, "Do you want to try those on?"

He shakes his head. "This is my size." He lets out a frustrated sigh. "Why do I remember things like that and not my own name? Not my life?"

Clark touches his arm, the only reassurance he can give with a clear conscience. Every man has a limit on the amount of hypocrisy he can stomach, and telling Al he hopes he gets his memory back soon would far exceed his.

Al finishes up his clothes shopping with a belt and some shoes, and they follow the signs to the housewares department. Al checks out the bedding while Clark waits with the cart.

Finally, he points to a bed-in-a-bag ensemble. "What do you think?"

It's plain, a very pale, delicate blue, soft-looking fabric. "Soothing" is the word that comes to mind, and he says so.

Al's smile is quick and pleased. "I think so, too." He starts to pick it up, but then looks hesitant about it.

Clark takes it from him and puts it in the cart. "It's fifty percent off. We can't afford not to get it."

The happy glow in Al's face makes it doubly worth it.

Al ticks off the rest of the items on his list. Clark goes to get the soap himself, just to make sure they don't forget it. They breeze through the checkout and wheel their over-brimming cart out to the truck.

Back home, they heft everything inside, and Clark flops onto the couch. Five hours of shopping is enough to test even superhuman endurance. Al, on the other hand, seems to have more energy than ever. He stands in front of the coffee table, hands on his hips.

"What?" Clark asks.

"Weren't you going to clean up the bedroom?" Al taps his foot.

"Well, yeah, but--"

Al's expression is relentless.

Clark sighs. "Okay. I'm going." He pulls himself to his feet and trudges off after the mop.

While he's making good on his promise, Al busies himself in the living room. When Clark returns, his mouth falls open at all the progress he's made. Al has transformed their sorry couch into a respectable looking piece of furniture with a cream-colored slipcover and patterned throw pillows. He's put down the small area rug they bought, deep red with a design like a Persian carpet, at least the Target version of it. He's even managed to hang the curtains. As a finishing touch, he's set out the simple red pottery style dish on the coffee table that he said would make the perfect accent piece and arranged a stack of Clark's less pest-control oriented magazines beside it, like actual civilized people have in their living rooms.

"It's hard to believe it's even the same place," Clark tells him.

Al surveys the room with a gleam in his eye that's part satisfaction, part ambition for the future. "It's good for a start, at least."

They move on to the bedroom and tackle the curtains first. The ceilings are taller in here, and Clark breaks out the stepladder. He hangs a set of curtains, while Al works on putting hooks into the remaining panels. They're kind of fussy, and after fiddling with it for a while with no progress, he declares with disgust, "These have to be broken."

"I'll give it a try," Clark says, "after I finish with this."

"Fine," Al throws down the curtains, "if you think I'm incompetent. I'll just go do something else, something that doesn't require any actual skill." He stomps over to the shopping bags, takes out the new sheets and starts to rip open the packages.

Clark stares, completely puzzled by this abrupt change of weather. "What's wrong?"

"Why would anything be wrong?" Al snaps at him. "Just because you're treating me like an idiot."

He strips the bed almost viciously, as if he's half expecting it to fight back, and unfurls the new linens with a sharp jerk of his wrist. He briefly rubs at his temple before starting to pull the corner of the fitted sheet over the mattress, but Clark doesn't miss the gesture.

He scrambles down from the ladder. "Why didn't you tell me your head was bothering you?"

"It's fine. Can you get this while I do these pillows--"

"Hey," Clark takes his arm, making him listen, "It's not fine. If you're in pain, I need to know about it."

Al lets out his breath and grudgingly admits, "I have a slight headache. It's nothing."

"Maybe," Clark takes the pillow sham out of his hands, "but from where I'm standing? It looks more like something."

"Doc Hadley said to expect it," Al argues, sounding peevish and overtired, and Clark doesn't know why he didn't recognize the signs sooner.

"Yeah," he tells Al, "and Doc Hadley also said you should rest and take it easy. So let's just have some dinner, and relax, and you can turn in early."

Al lifts his chin, a definite challenge. "After we finish this."

"No." It's the first time he's said that all day, and he makes it clear that he means it. "You've already pushed yourself too hard."

Al grows plaintive. "I just want to finish in here. A few more minutes." He drops his eyes to the floor and says, like it might cost him something to admit it, "I need to feel at home."

Clark feels the proverbial light go on. So that's what this has been about.

He tries to sound as reassuring as he can, "I promise we'll work on it tomorrow. We'll work on it as long as it takes, until you're satisfied. Just not any more tonight, okay?"

It takes a moment, but Al does nod, even if he's not exactly happy about it. Clark steers him out to the kitchen and makes him sit at the table while he warms up the pot roast. By the time dinner is over, Al can barely keep his eyes open, and he yawns a path straight to the sofa. Clark cleans up the dishes, and in just those few moments, Al has already fallen asleep. Clark covers him with the new throw, smiling softly, thinking it was a good thing Al decided they should get it.

He putters around, letting Al nap until it's time for bed, and then he approaches quietly, kneels down, watching with a fascination he wishes he didn't feel. It doesn't seem right, like he's taking advantage. Al looks so strangely peaceful, all his sharpness and complexity eased in sleep, and Clark hesitates to disturb that, so rare and so beautiful. He's considering whether he should just leave him there for the night when Al's eyes flutter open, sensing his presence. He frowns, his expression unfocused and confused, like he just lost himself all over again.

After a moment, he closes his eyes and mumbles "sorry," in a contrite, sleep-rough voice.

Clark pats him kindly on the shoulder. "You ready for bed?"

He nods and yawns, and Clark helps him to his feet. In the doorway to the bedroom, Al stops.

"You didn't have to," he says quietly, his gaze moving from the curtains to the bed neatly made with the new linens and bedspread to the bunch of wildflowers on the nightstand that Clark arranged the best he could.

"I'm not too good at this kind of thing. Anything you want to change, go right ahead. It won't hurt my feelings."

"I think it's perfect." Al's voice is soft with sleep and surprise.

Clark smiles at him, and he'd like to do more, maybe squeeze Al's hand or touch his cheek, brush a kiss over his forehead, but those things belong to a husband, not to him.

"Goodnight," he says, like a consolation prize.

He turns, and Al's "thank you" whispers over him, making him smile again, soothing away the momentary ache.