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The Kent farmhouse was mostly dark; the porch lights were on, but only a faint glow came from the kitchen, and a dimmer flickering from elsewhere in the house. Several cars were parked by the barn, including Chloe's red Beetle and one he thought Pete Ross might be driving now — sometimes it seemed that guy went through more vehicles than the Kents. The Kents' own truck was nowhere to be seen.
Clark had mentioned that his parents would be out, and that he might have a few friends over. He'd hastened to reassure Lex that he was still welcome to stop by, and when Lex had teased, "'A few friends' doesn't mean another party, I hope," he'd almost been able to hear Clark's blush over the phone.
Inside, only the light over the kitchen island was on, spotlighting several plates containing a few cookies and lots of crumbs. Knowing Martha had probably baked them, he was tempted to take one for himself, but the mix of laughing voices from the living room reminded him of Clark's other company, and he left the plates untouched.
In the living room, Clark, Pete, and another boy were sprawled between the television and the couch, where Chloe and two other girls were sitting.
Playing on the television was a late-night cartoon Clark liked to watch. Lex suspected the Kents didn't approve of it, and he wasn't sure he particularly did, either. From what he'd seen, its deliberately-crude animation matched the show's crude idea of humor.
A snatch of dialogue caught his attention: "—sexual abuse, Dad!"
Clark and his friends seemed riveted to the television. Ignoring the sudden chill between his shoulderblades, Lex watched a moment, himself, not so much out of interest as with a sickening sense of inevitability.
Onscreen, two characters were arguing: one balding and grey-haired, the other stooped and wrinkled to look even older.
"What the hell are you talking about?! I never sexually abused you," the older character protested. The father, presumably.
"I know!" his son answered. "I want to know why not!"
Clark and his friends all burst out laughing, the girls tittering incredulously in their higher register while Pete let out a long, low groan as he put his face to the floor and covered his head.
"I wasn't good enough for you! Was that it, Dad?"
Still in the shadows outside the room, Lex set his face with the faint smirk he used for situations beneath his sense of humor. It wasn't difficult; the joke was neither especially offensive nor especially funny. It provoked laughter as a defense mechanism, and Clark's soft chuckles seemed to Lex to be at best nervous or at worst going along with the crowd, whereas Clark's friends' laughter was more raucous, punctuated with "Whoa!" and "Dude!" Perhaps merely at the unusual twist on a taboo subject? They all still laughed at manure jokes, too, Lex knew.
The cartoon continued, only mostly drowned out by the laughter. Lex caught "—you were just too busy!" before the son character began sobbing. A cavalcade of images cascaded out of his memory, all of his father walking away from him dismissively; sometimes with a withering parting shot over his shoulder, more often with casual but silent disregard.
Lex closed the door on those memories and entered the physical doorway of the living room enough to lean against the doorjamb, folding his arms. Clark half-turned his head and noticed him there, but Lex gestured with a wink and a wave for him not to interrupt the screening. Clark just grinned, clearly pleased to see Lex, and faced the television again.
Clark seemed so normal at times like these, even to Lex, who knew more than Clark realized about just how normal Clark wasn't. Hanging out with friends, doing something naughty but effectively harmless while his parents were away. Lex wondered how much of this was the real Clark — and how sure Clark was that this was the real Clark.
The whining cartoon voice wound its way up through the giggles and guffaws again, complaining, "Dad never sexually molested me!"
Lex kept his gaze on Clark, but the various voices intruded on his thoughts. They argued back and forth, while the high-schoolers gasped and giggled. The door in Lex's mind behind which Lionel lurked... bowed outward. Clark cast him another discreet glance, and frowned a little; Lex had let the mask slip. He covered by pursing his lips as if thoughtfully, and nodding to Clark before retreating to the kitchen. Clark would come find him at the next commercial.
"You stood by and let it happen!" the complaining character's voice accused, audible into the hallway, "You saw him come home drunk and then just go right to sleep!"
Lex could almost smell scotch, his father's brand. He grabbed the worn-smooth edge of the kitchen counter in both hands and drew deep breaths until the ghost-scent was gone. Taking a cookie, he chewed it slowly and methodically, and called up memories of Clark with Jonathan. Paternal shoulder-claps, held hands, hugs that were about contact and comfort rather than spectacle or manipulation.
He tried to imagine what those touches would feel like — and then could not divert those thoughts fast enough before a different mental door burst open:
Lionel had never raped him, of course. The man was too cunning to leave evidence, or even run the risk of an unexpected eyewitness. Instead, Lex's teens had been punctuated with touches just inappropriate enough to make him feel confused, horrified, ashamed — but never enough to be legally actionable, always able to be explained away as accidental, or misinterpreted.
It might have been easier to deal with if Lionel had crossed that line. Lex didn't exactly wish his father had done more to him, but he could understand why a son might, even outside the realm of 'comedy', maybe too well.
There was only one thing he'd ever wanted from his father, and he knew he'd never get it, any more than the cartoon man had.
At least Lex knew that being molested by your father didn't mean he loved you.
Through the kitchen window, Lex saw lights sweep across the yard; Clark had implied they would be gone overnight, but that was unmistakably the sound of his parents' pickup truck signaling the elder Kents' arrival home. Perhaps they hadn't trusted Clark not to have another out-of-control party after all? Lex could also hear the teens moving and talking in the living room, and then Clark emerged, smiling when he saw Lex with a half-eaten cookie.
A part of Lex wanted to ask Clark what he'd thought of the 'plot' of the cartoon, such as it was; but he knew he never would. Better, by far, to take another bite of the cookie while holding Clark's gaze, and let him wonder about Lex's thoughts.
Clark's cheeks reddened on cue, but he didn't break eye contact.
Lex leaned back against the counter as footsteps sounded on the porch outside, as if Clark was a bulwark standing between him and all those burgeoning doors in his mind, and steeled himself to watch the coming display of healthy familial affection.
Perhaps he could learn something.