inalienable rights CHAPTER ONE

"Over my dead body!" Jonathan yelled, spouting yet another time-worn cliché with his usual braggadocio and flannel swagger.

"Well, it just might be that way if I don't go!" Clark's eyes blazed with his temper - something not to be taken lightly with Clark. He had drawn himself up to his full height to stare Jonathan down, and father and son now stood glaring at each other with the sofa serving as a demure boundary between them, from which Martha Kent launched herself into parental high-gear.

"Clark Kent, you do not talk to your father that way!" She planted her feet and her resolve firmly on the floor. "Now you apologize this minute! What a thing to say, after we almost lost him!" Martha's eyes welled with tears as she put a hand over her mouth and sank back to the forgiving sofa.

Clark's expression softened, but not before throwing one sharp glance at Jonathan to remind him that the matter was not settled. "I'm sorry, Mom, I didn't mean - " he sat gingerly on the couch next to Martha, just as she bit off his words.

"That was just callous, Clark, and uncalled for." She didn't take any guff lately, not from anyone. She'd had her fill of passivity and patience, playing the docile wife and mother while she was always screaming inside. Clark's return after three months' absence somewhere beyond the walls of the Kawatche cave had triggered something in her - a strength she didn't know she had, something that would drive her to defend those she loved at all costs, no matter how much they drove her crazy. It also meant she didn't feel the need to keep quiet and let the boys duke it out anymore while she interjected with news from the constantly ringing phone.

Clark pulled back his hand, which had been reaching for his mother's shoulder, and let himself fall back against the couch. He winced and bit his lip guiltily when he heard something splinter under the upholstery. Martha turned slowly, eyed Clark's apologetic expression and the now-sagging sofa - an innocent bystander wounded by family drama.

Martha turned away again and pressed the heels of her hands against her forehead. "I think he should go, Jonathan."

Clark jumped up and stood awkwardly, trying not to bump into anything. "I'm sorry about the couch, Mom. And I'm sorry about what I said, it's just that Dad can't handle the farm alone, and if I can just get all these questions taken care of then I can spend more time helping around here. I don't just want to go for myself. Don't you guys want all this stuff over with?"

"Don't worry about the couch, Clark." Martha couldn't respond to the rest of Clark's plea, because the truth was she already knew much more than she wanted to. She had always been curious about her son's origins, but the old adage "curiosity killed the cat" was proving true - at least for her. Only it wasn't killing the cat, it was killing her spirit. She pleaded with herself every day to stop asking questions - to stop wanting answers, because every time she got what she thought she wanted, she felt like she lost Clark a little more. The day that Clark told her about his first memory - of Lara, his biological mother - a small piece of her hope crumbled away. She knew that as long as Clark remained, a bit of her would stay with him, even if only in some small, almost forgotten way. It was her own personal passage to immortality. But the question was, would Clark remain?

"First of all, Son," Jonathan began, famously obtuse. "It's not your responsibility to worry about how this farm gets by, it's mine."

What does that even mean? Clark rolled his eyes. "What are you talking about? Of course it's my responsibility. This farm has been in your family for generations - when did your dad ever say 'Son, the work on this farm isn't your responsibility, it's mine.' That's just crap, Dad! Why are you always saying stuff like that?"

Jonathan was speechless - a rarity - and stared agape at his son. Some deep part of him was proud of Clark's sense of duty and family loyalty, but a bigger part of him - a part that dwelled much nearer the surface of his so-called thick skin and therefore was always at-the-ready, burned with what he felt at the time was righteous indignation. "Sounds like none of us are mincing words tonight."

Clark resisted the urge to hit a wall in frustration. "Well, some of us aren't."

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Jonathan spat, rolling up his flannel sleeves in true bar-room brawl fashion.

"That's the point, Dad, it meant something - it wasn't just talking for the sake of having something to say. Lately it's like you're never really talking to me, you're trying to sum things up in a neat little package of words that - well, first of all, is impossible to respond to, and secondly, has no meaning whatsoever. Half the time I stand there feeling stupid because I have no idea what the hell you just said, or why you said it. You just… you say these things that I get the impression are supposed to make everything clear, or easy to understand, or whatever, but they just feel… empty. Like you're talking through me or something." Clark let the last few words tumble along with the tone of his voice and dropped his eyes to the floor.

So rarely did he really speak out against Jonathan, and when he did he always felt treacherous, as if on some level Jonathan was keeping score between himself and Jor-El as to which father had let Clark down more.

Jonathan was keeping score, and was beginning to feel as if he'd pulled into the lead and was seriously over par. He tried so hard - too hard, he knew - to guide Clark and advise him, and his intended pearls of wisdom often felt more like balls of wet dough. He would grin and chuckle and try to toss off the awkwardness left in the wake of his platitudes, but he couldn't curb the impulse.

"I don't have time for this," Jonathan huffed and grabbed his coat as he headed out the door, although it was too hot for even the flannel he was wearing.

"Of course you don't have time, this whole farm is your responsibility alone, right? You have a lot of work to do, and those cows aren't going to feed themselves. It's nobody's job to help you, especially mine." Clark almost regretted the words, but he too was tired of hiding under surfaces. The summer had changed a lot of things, and hollow pleasantries were the least of them.

Jonathan threw his coat on the floor and stomped his boots as he lumbered up to Clark. "You want to say that again, Son?"

Funny how terms of endearment can sound like acid when their use changes. Clark shrugged and looked away from his father's piercing stare. "I just… I wanted you to say something real."

Jonathan nodded and wordlessly turned his back to Clark. "Something real, huh?" He paused and nodded again, apparently agreeing with the direction his subconscious was taking. "How's this for real? I have no idea what the hell to say to you. Happy? You come at me with these insane issues and I'm supposed to know how to deal with them? Things nobody on this planet knows anything about? I'm a damn farmer - I know working for a living, earning and saving and paying your dues. I haven't had a lot practice with fatherhood on even a normal scale, so forgive me, Son, for not knowing exactly how to play this game. This is no 'boogeyman in my closet' or 'monster under my bed' parenting, Clark. This is just one simple guy trying to do something that frankly, scares the hell out of him and he has no clue how to do it."

Clark swallowed to try and clear the lump in his throat, and Martha dabbed at a tear clinging to her chin with a tissue.

"I didn't know you felt like that," Clark whispered.

"Well, no, you wouldn't, because the one thing I do know how to do is put on a brave face, so I did." Jonathan shrugged and picked up his coat again. "Now I have work to do. The cows really aren't going to feed themselves."