*~*~*
Jeremy squinted up into the sun and shoved his slipping glasses back up on his nose. Well, here he was in Kansas, land of corn, mud, corn, and sweltering heat. And more corn. The first thing he was doing when he got back to New York was throttling Dana.
Something whizzed past in the field to Jeremy’s left, bending the corn in its wake. Great. Just what he needed – a run-in with a heat-crazed deer. Hey – just because he didn’t approve of shooting deer didn’t mean he wanted to have to deal with one face-to-face.
“Where the hell is that tow truck?” he muttered, digging his cell from his pocket. His finger was hovering over the “SEND” button when the whizzing in the corn stopped, reversed itself until it was right next to him, and stopped again. Jeremy eased his finger away from “SEND,” in case he had to dial 911 instead. The headline would read, “Visiting Producer Mauled by Homicidal Deer.” He hoped Dana would cry buckets of guilt-ridden tears at his funeral.
A head popped from between the rows of corn. Jeremy was startled to see that it was a human head. An impossibly handsome, distressingly young human head. “Hi!”
Jeremy looked around. “Are you talking to me?”
The head laughed. “Anybody else around?” A body appeared – and kept on appearing. God, how tall was this kid? He approached Jeremy and his car. “You stuck?”
“Highway hypnosis,” Jeremy said. “A condition caused by driving for long periods on flat, straight, utterly unchanging roads. A major cause of accidents on U.S. freeways – and of people stuck in the mud of the lower Midwest. This is a great state you’ve got here.”
Another laugh. “I’ll give you a push.”
“Thanks, but there’s a tow-truck on the way.”
“In Smallville?” The kid rolled his eyes and snorted. “You’ll be lucky if it shows up in an hour. Better let me give you a hand.”
Jeremy looked from the kid to the road stretching before and behind him, unbroken, all the way to both horizons. He doubted this spindly-looking teenager would be much help...but the road had been awfully empty for an awfully long time. He shrugged. “Thanks.” Climbing back into the rented green Sable, he turned the key and popped the gearshift into neutral. “Ready?” he asked out the open window.
“All set,” the kid said, and Jeremy tapped the gas.
There was an incredible squelching pop, and the car jumped forward a foot into the road. Jeremy slammed on the brakes and threw the car into park. “How the hell did you do that?” he demanded.
The kid leaned into the passenger side window. “My dad’s truck gets stuck in the mud all the time. You just have to know where to push.”
“I really appreciate it.” Jeremy stuck out his hand. “Jeremy Goodwin.”
The kid shook his hand. He had a nice, strong grip. “Clark Kent.”
“Can I give you a lift somewhere?”
“Nah. That’s okay.”
Jeremy shook his head. “It’s the least I can do to thank you for saving my life.”
Clark chuckled. “Your life wasn’t in danger.”
“Believe me: if I’d missed the baseball game, my life would’ve been in all sorts of danger. In fact, basically it would’ve been over.”
“You’re going to the game?”
“It’s the reason I’m in your fine state.” He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and handed Clark one of the business cards Dana had insisted that he have.
“Jeremy Goodwin, Associate Producer, ‘Sports Night.’” Clark looked impressed. “My dad loves that show. Dan and Casey are like demigods in his personal pantheon.”
Jeremy took a long, revising look at this kid, who spent his days pushing his father’s pick-up out of the mud but also used phrases like “demigods in his personal pantheon.” “So...did you want that ride?”
Jeremy thought Clark’s eyes flicked past him towards the corn field on the other side of the road. Then he looked back at Jeremy and shrugged. “I’m headed to the game anyway.” He opened the door and slithered inside.
“What were you doing in the corn?”
Clark stared out the window. “Just...thinking. This is a good area for that. Nobody around, you know.” Jeremy nodded. “What about you? What makes our sleepy Smallville Crows worthy of a visitor from ‘Sports Night’?”
“The pitcher.” Jeremy took a miniscule curve in the road that may have been a hallucination. “Dylan DeMassey’s throwing between 105 and 115 miles per hour every pitch, but he’s never hit a batter. He’s also never walked a batter. He’s also becoming one of the best left fielders ever to play high school ball. My executive producer sent me out here to find out if there’s a story in him.”
“The fact that he throws 105 to 115 miles an hour every time isn’t enough?”
Jeremy fiddled with the climate control. “It’s enough for a mention. For a feature, there has to be a story. How he got to be that fast; what keeps him motivated; that kind of thing.”
As soon as he said it, Jeremy knew there was a story from the way Clark suddenly seemed entranced by the corn he probably passed every day of his life. Jeremy took advantage of his passenger’s distraction to study him. Clark was tall, first off. Fantastically tall, accordioned up in the seat with his knees squashed against his chest and his enormous hands flittering around like a brace of pigeons with no place to land. His dark, almost-curly hair feathered around his ears, and as Jeremy watched, his eyes, transfixed on the cloudless sky, shifted from blue to green and back as some apparently disturbing thought came into his mind and left again.
With no warning at all, Clark turned and flashed a broad, disarming smile that left no doubt that he knew he was being watched. Jeremy tore his gaze back to the road, and apart from Clark’s occasional navigational suggestions, they finished the ride in silence.
They were the first spectators in the stadium. By a lot. Jeremy looked around the empty stands. “Hear that? Even before there are people here, there’s a hum of anticipation, like the stadium itself knows there’s a game today.” He beamed at Clark. “I need to find DeMassey. Nice meeting you; thanks again for getting me out of the mud.”
“I was going to grab some seats for my parents and me. Come find me when you’re done with the interview.” He glanced into the empty bleachers. “I won’t be hard to spot.”
Jeremy pushed up his glasses. “You don’t have to save me a seat with your family.”
“It’s no trouble,” Clark insisted. Jeremy hesitated. “It’ll be fun. Between the three of us, my family knows pretty much everyone in Smallville. There’s no better place to hear the juicy gossip.”
Jeremy tapped his fingers against his tie. “Juicy gossip?”
“The juiciest.”
They grinned at each other for a minute. “Okay,” Jeremy said. “This interview shouldn’t take long.”
Clark watched Jeremy disappear around the end of the bleachers, then headed up the stairs along the first base line. He doubted Jeremy had much chance of getting anything out of Dylan, but he’d seemed so enthusiastic that Clark hadn’t had the heart to shoot him down.
Clark was unbelievably nervous about today’s game. He didn’t know why he kept coming to these things; they got him so knotted up. Sure, he was glad that Dylan was a meteor-freak not hell-bent on destroying the entire town, but he worried that this story would end the same way as Whitney’s tattooed buddies. In a year, would Dylan’s pitches be as fast? In two years, would they be as controlled? In five years, would his arm work at all? Dylan was smart to steer clear of the press, but Clark found himself hoping that Jeremy, somehow, would find a way through the pitcher’s defenses.
Jeremy’s enthusiasm, Clark thought, watching a flock of sparrows heading for the lake, was a big part of his appeal. Clark had never understood what Chloe meant when she talked about “geek charm,” but he got it now. It was Jeremy’s Buddy Hollyish glasses and the way his hair, almost as dark as Clark’s own, kept falling in his eyes. It was the plastic Yoda on the dashboard of the rental car and the fact that, despite having spent an hour stuck in the Kansas mud, Jeremy still had his tie on.
Fine, Clark conceded as he draped his legs over the bench in front of him, he was attracted to Jeremy. Still, he wasn’t as naïve as people thought. He sucked at judging ages, but he’d guess Jeremy was in his late twenties, and even if Clark was older than the average high school freshman, late twenties definitely put Jeremy out of the running.
Still, as long as he had time to kill, what were a few harmless fantasies going to hurt?
*~*~*
When Jeremy said the interview wouldn’t take long, he wasn’t exaggerating even a little. Clark’s mind’s eye had barely gotten Jeremy’s shirt off when the real Jeremy (fully dressed, unfortunately) reappeared at the bottom of the bleachers. Clark waved lazily to get his attention, and he half-waved back before jogging up the steps.
“That was the shortest interview in the history of high school baseball.”
“But now you know everything there is to know about Dylan DeMassey.”
Jeremy snorted as he dropped onto the bench, his thigh tantalizingly close to Clark’s. “He wasn’t exactly forthcoming.”
Clark shrugged. He could’ve told Jeremy that, but the idea of squashing his jubilation had seemed almost criminal. “He’s a private person.”
“He’s got secrets,” Jeremy said knowingly and glanced at Clark out of the corner of his eye. “Something I get the feeling there’s a lot of in Smallville.”
Clark considered playing innocent, decided Jeremy wouldn’t buy it. “We don’t like people poking around in our lives.”
“Freedom of the press as long as the story’s about someone else?”
Okay, this guy was going to majorly lose his appeal if he kept this up.
“So...tell me about life in Smallville.”
Clark blinked. Jeremy had obviously picked up the pissed vibe, which won him back most of his points. “It’s boring.”
“I live in New York City. I have no idea how the rest of the world works. Humor me.”
So they fiddled away their time swapping tales of small town and large, and by the time other fans finally started arriving, Clark knew Jeremy better than he knew most of his other friends. And that was a really depressing thought.
*~*~*
Jeremy watched Clark as the spectators trickled in. He seemed to know almost everyone, though whether or not he was popular, Jeremy couldn’t tell.
God. Popular. How long had it been since Jeremy had had to worry about that? Not that he’d ever been popular in high school, which was why he’d worried about it so much. Thank God he’d found the gang at “Sports Night,” all of whom were every bit as geeky as he was – for all Dan wanted to call himself cool. Looking back, it was easy to see how much better high school would’ve been if he’d been able to let popularity go, but of course Clark couldn’t see that, since he was in the thick of it.
Which of course begged the very important question: what the fuck was Jeremy doing?
Clark jumped up and started waving like a madman at someone on the ground. After a minute, a blond girl with an enormous camera around her neck waved back and, grabbing the hand of a kid who’d been ogling every skirt that passed, charged towards them.
“Clark!”
He grinned at her. “Chloe!”
Either Chloe didn’t realize Clark was mocking her or she was ignoring it. “I’m ready for today. I have the highest speed film you can get in Smallville; I borrowed the Torch’s best camera; I’m gonna get a picture of that hundred-mile-an-hour arm of Dylan’s or die trying!” To this point, she didn’t seem to have noticed Jeremy. Then again, she didn’t seem to have breathed, so he wasn’t offended.
Her friend seemed more together. He cocked his head towards Jeremy and raised his eyebrows at Clark.
“Oh!” Clark pointed to his friends. “This is Pete Ross and Chloe Sullivan. Guys, Jeremy Goodwin.”
Chloe barely noticed she was shaking hands, but Pete’s intense gaze felt like a test Jeremy hadn’t studied for. “I thought you were coming with Lex,” Pete said.
Clark’s face turned a dark, angry red, but he shrugged as Chloe and Pete climbed over them and sat down. “He couldn’t make it.”
Before Pete had a chance to question that – which he clearly wanted to – Clark was on his feet and waving again. “My parents,” he told Jeremy.
Jeremy sat up straighter. He forced himself to relax. This wasn’t like meeting Natalie’s parents, or even like the time he’d run into Dan’s dad (and what an asshole that man was). These were just…some kid’s parents. Some gorgeous, well-muscled kid who’d saved him from certain death. That’s all.
“Mom! Dad!” Clark called as his parents approached. “This is Jeremy Goodwin. He’s from ‘Sports Night.’”
Any chance that Clark’s father was going to hate Jeremy vanished. “Really? Jonathan Kent. Great to meet you; I’m a real fan.”
Jonathan sucked Jeremy into a conversation about “Sports Night,” which Jeremy didn’t mind, because it meant Jonathan wasn’t threatening him with a shotgun or anything. But he had half an ear tuned to the three friends on his left.
“Shit!” Chloe cursed. “Lana at two o’clock. Don’t look. No – don’t look!”
But they looked, and Jeremy did, too. They seemed to be watching a dark-haired girl and her blond boyfriend. As the pair searched the stands for a place to sit, Chloe, Clark, and Pete kept up a quiet litany of “Don’t sit here. Don’t sit here.” The couple headed towards the third base line, and the three sighed with relief.
“So how did you meet Clark, Jeremy?” Martha asked.
“My car was stuck in the mud outside of town. Clark happened by and gave me a push.”
Martha and Jonathan looked over the top of Jeremy’s head at their son. “Clark?” Jonathan asked.
Clark shrugged. “He was stuck. It’s okay.” They continued to frown. “Really. It’s fine.”
Chloe was just on the other side of Clark. Jeremy leaned forward. “Are you the Chloe Sullivan who runs the Smallville Wall of Weird?”
She stared at him, her face glowing with pride. “You’ve seen the Wall?”
“The web site.” He smiled at her. “I do my homework. You think Dylan DeMassey’s pitching abilities are linked to the meteor shower?”
“This isn’t just some random theory I came up with,” she protested. “Everything strange that happens in Smallville can be traced back to that day.”
“I’m not inclined to dispute that,” Jeremy said, holding up his hand. “And you’re an excellent writer. But you can’t just make assertions. To be good journalism, you have to have proof.”
Chloe held up her camera. “That’s what today’s all about.” She considered Jeremy. “You know, you’re okay – for a sports guy.”
He chuckled. “Thanks. You’re not bad yourself – for an Internet journalist.”
“Hey, Clark,” Pete said, his eyes narrowed to angry slits, “I thought you said Lex couldn’t come today.”
“Oh, fuck.” Clark’s hands clenched on his knees, which had started jouncing. Jeremy felt a wave of nervous heat roll off of Clark, and he turned towards the stairs to see what had him so worked up.
Jeremy wasn’t dumb. He recognized a billionaire when he saw one. He just hadn’t expected the playboy scion of the Luthor empire to be so...young. Or so magnetic.
“Clark.” Lex spoke softly, like the stands were empty except for one blue-eyed farm boy. Clark continued fidgeting and didn’t quite make eye contact with Lex. “You were going to come by before the game.
All fidgeting ceased. “Was I?” Clark asked icily. “You never said, one way or the other.”
Lex’s already pale face went a shade lighter. “I didn’t. But I presumed—“
“Well, you shouldn’t do that, then, should you?”
Clark’s voice was brittle, and for a moment Jeremy thought Clark and Lex might both break down. He would’ve admired them for that. But Lex seemed to remember that he was being observed, and all of his pieces slid seamlessly back into place as he thrust his hand under Jeremy’s nose. “Lex Luthor.”
“Jeremy Goodwin.”
“’Sports Night.’” Lex took his hand back and stuffed in into his pocket. “I heard you were coming. Your interest is in the pitcher, yes?”
After everything he’d seen today, the pitcher wasn’t Jeremy’s only interest, but he smiled and said, “A high school junior consistently pitching over one hundred m.p.h.? You bet it’s my interest.”
“I like ‘Sports Night.’” Lex nodded thoughtfully. “It’s...intelligent, for a sports show. I appreciate your coverage of the Sharks; you’ve been very fair – though my father wishes Dan would stop referring to them as ‘the king of the jungle’s pawns of the sea.’”
“Dan and Casey write their own scripts,” Jeremy said with a shrug. “Once Dan latches onto a bad pun like that, he’ll run it right through the ground.”
“As I said, it’s my father’s gripe, not mine. Personally, I couldn’t care less what you call them – or if you call them at all.” He turned from Jeremy as easily as if he weren’t there. “Will I see you after the game, Clark?”
Though phrased as a question, it sounded like a command, and Jeremy watched Clark struggle to resist the pull. Possessed by what demon he could not say, Jeremy put his hand on Clark’s knee. Clark smiled at him before turning back to Lex. “No.”
The bitter twist of Lex’s smile told Jeremy he’d expected as much. “Some other time.” He made a show of surveying the stands. “I think I’ll go see if my father’s here today. Nice to meet you, Jeremy.” He moved away, his hand-tailored black slacks and chest-hugging black T-shirt as inconspicuous among the red-and-gold throng as a jaguar in a blizzard.
The instant they thought Lex was out of hearing range, Chloe and Pete started cheering for Clark and clapping him on the back. “Way to go, man!” Pete crowed.
If they’re Clark’s best friends, Jeremy thought, why can’t they see how miserable that made him? He gave Clark’s knee a light squeeze before pulling his hand away. “Are you all right?”
He sighed. “I will be.”
“Any chance Lex’s father is here?”
Clark smiled. “Less than none.”
Dylan DeMassey didn’t disappoint. Every one of his pitches flew faster than most eyes could follow – certainly faster than any batter could swing. They all landed neatly in the strike zone, and there wasn’t a single one that looked like it was even thinking about hitting a batter. Chloe took picture after picture, changing rolls at least twice – that Jeremy noticed – before the seventh inning stretch, but he bet nothing would show but a white blur and the look of concentration on Dylan’s face.
The Crows won, of course. The Pirates’ pitcher was good, but no Dylan, and their batters were good, but no match for Dylan. When the game ended 8-0 and the crowd surged out of the stands, Jonathan looked across the field to the dejected Port Stearns fans and said idly, “Teams are going to start forfeiting games against us.”
Clark flashed puppy-dog eyes at Jeremy. “You have to go now, don’t you?”
Jeremy sighed. “Actually, due to a real-life farce involving Delta, my credit card, and a woman named Maude in the travel office who’s in a lot of trouble right now, I don’t leave until fairly late tomorrow morning.”
“Great! Do you want to get coffee or something?” In answer, Jeremy’s stomach growled, and he remembered that he hadn’t eaten since sometime before the mud. Clark laughed. “Follow us back to the farm and have dinner with us. Dad’s grilling tonight.”
“I wouldn’t think of imposing—“
“It’s no imposition,” Martha assured him. “We’re always feeding one or two of Clark’s friends. Speaking of which—“ She looked at Chloe and Pete. “Are you two joining us?”
An argument ensued. Chloe, eyes wide, jerked her head towards Jeremy. Pete mimicked the motion in Clark’s direction and shook his head “no.” Chloe’s eyes grew wider, and Pete shrugged and nodded. Seemingly satisfied with that, Chloe turned to Martha. “Thanks for the invite, Mrs Kent, but Pete’s taking me on a real date tonight, and I’m not about to give that up.”
Martha grinned. “Off with you, then. Coming, Clark?”
Clark looked at Jeremy. “On second thought, Mom, why don’t I ride with Jeremy so he doesn’t get lost?”
Chloe rolled her eyes at Pete, who rolled his right back.
“That’d be great, Clark, thanks,” Jeremy said. “I’ll be in the car when you’re finished.”
“Finished with what?”
Jeremy smiled at him. “I think Pete and Chloe want to talk to you.” He walked off to the car.
Clark watched him go, then turned back to his friends, grinning. A grin that died at a tragically young age when he saw the looks on their faces. “What’s going on, guys?”
“Are you out of your mind?” Chloe demanded. “Seriously, did you pick up those colossal feet of yours and step right on out of your mind?”
Clark stared at her. “What are you talking about?”
“This guy,” she hissed, stabbing her finger towards the parking lot. “Do you know him? No. You met him five hours ago. And he’s old, Clark – even older than Lex.”
“So?”
“So you’re fifteen,” Pete said. “Jailbait.”
His eyes widened, and he took a step back. “Pete! Chloe, do you – is that what you think is going on here?” For a minute, he was afraid he’d overdone the innocence.
Chloe sighed. “Clark, wake up. Have you seen the way he’s been looking at you?”
“And, I have to say,” Pete added, “the way you’ve been looking back.”
Clark scoffed. “He’s a nice guy, and he’s a visitor here. I’m showing him Smallville.” Funny how easy the lies were when he kept a kernel of truth in them.
“He got stuck in the mud; saw an athlete made super-fast by the meteors; and met Lex Luthor,” Pete countered, ticking them off on his fingers. “He’s seen Smallville.”
“You guys—“
“We’re worried about you, Clark,” Chloe said. “This fight with Lex has you all turned around, and we don’t want you to do anything dumb just because he—“
“You two are happy,” Clark snapped. “Give someone else a chance for once.”
“Just...just promise me you won’t sleep with him.”
Clark snorted and rolled his eyes. Pete grabbed his arm – hard. Clark looked down at the surprisingly strong dark fingers circling his bicep – sure, he could shake Pete off, but not without bruising him. “Promise her,” he said, a chip of ice just below the surface of his voice.
“Jeez. Chloe, I promise I won’t sleep with Jeremy. Happy?” She nodded, her eyes tremulous and almost laughable.
“Now promise me, too,” Pete said.
Clark stared hard into Pete’s eyes. “I promise.”
Pete nodded and let go. “See you around, Clark,” he said, as though they hadn’t just finished the third annual Treat Clark Like a Two-Year-Old Games tag team relay.
“Sure,” he said and walked over to Jeremy’s car. As soon as he spotted Jeremy, scowling at the radio, he wondered if he could argue that promises made under coercion weren’t binding.
“All set?” Jeremy asked as Clark pulled on his seatbelt.
“Yeah. That was the weirdest—“ Clark shook his head.
Jeremy glanced at him as he eased the car out of the parking lot. “Something wrong?”
“No, it’s just that – no. You know what? Everything’s fine.”
*~*~*
They were discussing the finer points of Dylan’s game when Jeremy’s phone rang. He looked at his bag, nestled between Clark’s feet, and swore. “Hey, Clark, can you—“
Far faster than Jeremy thought should’ve been possible, Clark had the phone out and up to his ear. “Jeremy’s phone. Jeremy’s stepped out of his mind, but if you’d like to leave a message, he’ll get back to you as soon as he’s sane again.”
Jeremy smiled, but his brain was screaming, “Don’t be Isaac! Don’t be Isaac!”
“This is Clark. Is this Dana?”
Jeremy’s hands strangled the steering wheel. Fuck.
“Oh. Sorry. Well, it’s nice to meet you, Natalie.”
Jeremy started coughing uncontrollably. Double fuck. Isaac would’ve been better.
“He can’t talk now.” Two tiny creases formed between Clark’s eyebrows. “He’s driving.”
“Give me the phone, Clark.”
“You’re driving,” Clark protested.
Jeremy pulled the car to the side of the road. They were probably stuck in the mud again. “Now I’m not. Phone.” Clark handed over the cell, and the way Clark’s fingers brushed his own was decidedly not accidental. He took several deep breaths that weren’t nearly as calming as he needed them to be and put the phone to his ear. “Hi, Natalie.”
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“The game went well, thank you. I had some trouble with the interview. Isaac’s going to want to have words with me when I get back.”
“No, I’m asking you what the fuck you’re doing. Who was that kid who answered your phone?”
“That was Clark.”
“That’s what he said. And how old is Clark? Twelve?”
“His mother invited me to their house for dinner, and—“
“His mother?” Her voice spiked. “Get out of Kansas, Jeremy. Get out as fast as your car will take you.”
“Are you finished yet?”
Natalie’s sigh seemed heavier, amplified by hundreds of miles of satellite feed. “You can’t afford to do anything stupid, Jeremy. You and Calvin have...a history, and he’s no Luther Sachs, but he won’t hesitate to fire you if he thinks you’re a liability to the show’s character.”
Jeremy clenched his jaw, forced himself to relax. “Thanks for the advice. I’ll talk to you when I get back.”
“All right. Be careful.”
Jeremy turned off the cell and tossed it onto the dashboard. He adjusted his glasses and ran a weary hand over his forehead.
“So...Natalie,” Clark said carefully, returning the phone to the bag as Jeremy put the car in drive. They both seemed surprised when it actually moved. “Senior associate producer, right?”
“Right.”
“Your boss.”
Jeremy turned on the radio, twisted the tuning knob back and forth a couple times, and turned it off again. “Technically, I suppose you would – yeah. She’s my boss. She is also—“ He sighed. “She’s also my ex-girlfriend, and since we broke up she’s been the overzealous protector of my dating habits.”
“Wow.” Clark rolled down his window, letting in a bigger blast of hot air. “That must suck.”
“In her defense,” Jeremy said, rolling up his own window slightly, “I did go overboard, right at first.”
Clark looked over at him. “Yeah?”
He tapped the steering wheel. “Well, right after Natalie was Jenny. She was an adult film actress.”
Clark’s eyes popped, and he twisted in his seat, eyeing Jeremy with a new level of respect. “You dated a porn star?”
“She preferred ‘adult film actress,’ but, yeah. I dated a porn star.”
“Holy shit.” Clark said this reverently.
Jeremy couldn’t help grinning “That’s what I kept thinking. But she dumped me – and rightly so, because I was an asshole to her.” He shook his head. “After Jenny was Wes, of whom the less said the better, except to offer you this advice: never become romantically involved with anyone you meet via public transportation.”
“I’ll remember that. Thanks,” Clark said with a chuckle.
“Then there was Pixley.”
“Pixley?”
“Yeah.” Jeremy shrugged. “She has a thing for the men of ‘Sports Night.’ We weren’t together long. The last of my not-so-brilliant run was Calvin. He owns our network; I do not recommend this.”
“Jesus.” Clark rubbed his palms on the leg of his jeans. “But still. That’s only four—“
“In three months.”
“Ah. Well. Okay, then.” Clark swallowed. “Oh, uh, turn left here.”
They had arrived at Kent Farms.
*~*~*
Jeremy had a way with parents. Despite his continued inability to drink eggnog, the Hurleys liked him, and even Jacob Rydell had conceded that he wasn’t totally worthless. He didn’t know where the skill had come from – years of refereeing arguments between his own parents, maybe – but he was grateful for it now, because the Kents were the kind of parents he excelled at.
So he made small talk with Martha and Jonathan, aware that that Clark’s eyes hardly ever left him, that they were burning a hungry stripe up and down Jeremy’s body. He was trying not to let it affect him. He was failing.
A ravenous gaze focused with laser precision on Jeremy’s crotch caused his knee to bang violently against the underside of the table. His lemonade toppled, sending him scrambling, apologizing and blushing and generally making a big, dorky ass of himself. During the clean-up, Clark didn’t help matters at all by bumping his hand against Jeremy’s several times and wiping the table with strokes that had to be illegal.
As soon as the dinner dishes had been cleared, Clark – ignoring protests about being impolite to Jonathan and Martha – hauled Jeremy to the loft. “Welcome to the Fortress of Solitude,” he said proudly, showing off the space. “Whaddya think?”
Jeremy smiled nervously. “It’s great, Clark.” He perched on the edge of the couch, a textbook example of fight-or-flight waiting to happen.
“My own private space.” He frowned. “Well, except when people barge in.” Brightening, he added, “That won’t happen tonight, though. I put the combine in front of the door.”
Jeremy blinked. “You...”
“Kidding. Totally kidding.” Clark laughed easily. He eased onto the couch, very close to Jeremy. Taking a deep breath, he reached out and ran the back of his fingers lightly across Jeremy’s temple. Jeremy jumped six inches off the cushion and landed by the arm. “I’m sorry.” Clark tripped over his words, face burning. “I thought – I mean – you were talking about men, and I—“
Jeremy drew further back into the arm of the couch. “I didn’t wrangle an invitation to dinner so I could seduce you!”
That told Clark all he needed. Grinning, he leaned forward, one hand on the back of the sofa, the other on the arm, trapping Jeremy. He looked the gorgeously awkward man over heatedly. “I wrangled you,” he whispered, surprising himself with the want he heard there, “and I’m seducing you.”
Jeremy’s pupils had swallowed the irises. His face was flushed, and heat from his body slammed into Clark. Still he put a hand on Clark’s chest, holding him at bay. “I would not do well in prison.” Laughing low in his throat, Clark brought one hand up and trailed his fingers along Jeremy’s cheek. Jeremy’s eyes drifted shut, snapped open again. “Clark—“ he warned.
“Who’s gonna know?” Clark asked, his fingers drifting down Jeremy’s neck. This guy had amazing skin. Clark wanted to touch more of it.
Jeremy struggled to sit as upright as he could – which wasn’t much, given that Clark had shifted around to lay on Jeremy’s legs. “Your parents will know. This is a thing that parents tend to know.”
“Yeah, it is.” Clark worked the buttons of Jeremy’s shirt one-handed. It was easier than it looked. “My mom knows that I do this up here, so she keeps me well-stocked with a variety of condoms and lubes.”
Jeremy shuddered. “I don’t think I wanted to know that.”
Clark yanked Jeremy’s undershirt out of his waistband and slid his hand up Jeremy’s chest, enjoying his thin, soft hair and the way Jeremy was trying so hard not to writhe under him. Jeremy’s hand clamped hard over Clark’s wrist, pinning it just below his nipples. “What about Lex?”
Clark clenched his teeth, forced his hand not to follow suit. “Lex knows better than to interfere in my life.”
“As reassuring as that is,” Jeremy said, pushing up his glasses, “What I’m asking is if you’re using me to get back at him. Because – and, believe me, I’m all for revenge, but – let me tell you, vengeance sex is one of those things that will wake you up every morning for the rest of your life saying, ‘What the fuck did I do that for?’”
Clark laughed and sat back on Jeremy’s calves. “I promise: whatever happens tonight has nothing to do with Lex Luthor.”
“Good. No – not good!” Jeremy’s eyes widened in panic, and he shoved Clark’s hand away. “I mean – not good. This is still a bad idea. A very bad idea. A catastrophically bad idea.”
As slowly as he could stand to, Clark lowered his head and flicked his tongue into Jeremy’s navel. Jeremy gasped and jerked up against him. Grinning smugly, his mouth still against Jeremy’s stomach, Clark pointed toward the stairs. “There’s the way to the door,” he whispered.
Jeremy never quite made it off the couch.
*~*~*
The next morning was the most surreal of Jeremy’s life. The Kents didn’t seem shocked that their unexpected guest had stayed the night, and if they knew or cared that he’d spent his time being fucked unconscious by their dewy-eyed fifteen-year-old son, it sure as hell didn’t show in the waffles Martha made them for breakfast.
The most bizarre thing was, he felt no remorse. He, Jeremy Goodwin, the man for whom guilt was a second career, the man who was still apologizing to his sister for translating a kindergarten tirade against a playground rival as, “Louise thinks you have a nice ass,” felt not one wisp of regret. Sex with Clark had been...right. He sensed a lot of therapy headed his way.
And now it was more than time to be getting back. What did Natalie always say? “You can take the boy out of New York...but he’ll die.”
Jeremy stood outside the Sable, shifting his bag from one hand to the other. Clark waited to the side of his parents, smiling in a way that would’ve made Dan say, “That man just got laid.” Jeremy kept his eyes glued to Jonathan and Martha. “Thank you so much for your hospitality.”
Martha smiled benevolently as Jonathan shook his hand. “We were glad to have you here,” she said.
“Really great to meet you, Jeremy,” Jonathan said. “Keep up the good work at Sports Night.”
“We intend to.” Jeremy turned to Clark. “Well.”
Still smiling that contented smile, Clark stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Well.”
Jeremy had no idea what to say. He’d never been suave, never been great with the morning after, and never had to do it with his lover’s parents standing two feet away. With no words to fall back on, Jeremy reached into his shirt pocket and held out a business card.
“No – Jeremy, remember – you already gave me your card.”
Jeremy held it closer to Clark. “Take another one. Please. Dana ordered a thousand; I’ll be 97 before I meet that many people.”
If it were possible, Clark’s smile widened as he took the card. They stared at each other a minute. Jeremy adjusted his glasses. “Thank you, Clark. For...everything.”
Clark ducked his head. “Thank you, Jeremy.”
“For what?” Jeremy’s eyes narrowed.
Clark shrugged one shoulder. “For...for being a good guy.”
Jeremy laughed for the first time that day and shifted his bag one more time. “If you’re ever in New York City, stop by the studio. Maybe I can rescue you.”
“Do you have mud like ours?” Clark asked.
“Nah. But we have muggers.”
As Martha and Jonathan exchanged panicked glances, Clark burst out laughing. “Take care of yourself, Jeremy.” He held out his hand.
This time, when they shook, Clark’s touch was much softer than the first time. “You too, Clark,” Jeremy said.
After the Sable was out of even Clark’s range of vision, he took out Jeremy’s card and flipped it over. And if his smile had been wide before, now the two ends could’ve reached around and touched at the back of his head.
In a small, precise hand that was perfectly Jeremy, he had written his home phone number. Underneath was the message:
”Maude’s getting a raise. Find a reason to come to New York.”
END