Homestead

Summary: Clark/Lex. Smallville didn’t have meteor freaks during 1860…or did they?

“Alexander!”

Lillian wiped her hands on the calico apron she wore and gave the cast iron skillet one last toss to finish browning the potatoes. She waited another minute before turning toward the stairwell. She crossed the room and cupped her hands around her mouth.

“ALEXANDER! Wash up, Alex, it’s time to come down!” She heard her husband’s heavy boots at the head of the stairs. “Lionel?” The patina of her voice shifted, becoming more deferential.

“Lillian?” he replied drolly. “Have you lost something?” She sighed as she retreated to the stove. He was greeted by her slender back as he descended the stairs and entered the immaculate kitchen. Lillian’s sable hair shone in the sunlight, pulled snugly into a neat chignon.

“Breakfast is ready,” he assumed.

“Let me serve you a plate, Lionel.” She selected a willow-patterned plate and ladled it with potatoes, eggs and a thick slice of fried ham. He watched her graceful movements but refrained from seating himself.

Upstairs, a battle of wills was happening between a young boy and a button.

“Stupid…button…BLAST!” He struggled with the snug fastening, fumbling as he attempted to push the tiny disc through the finely stitched hole.

“Alex!” his father boomed. “Come downstairs, son. I won’t allow disobedience.”

“Father…” he began petulantly.

“Now, son.” His father’s tone ceased his fumbling and made him straighten up.

“I’m coming now, Father,” he answered soberly. He started reluctantly toward the door and caught sight of his reflection in the costly silver mirror atop the cherrywood vanity.

“They’ll hate me,” he whispered sadly to the glass. Slate blue eyes stared accusingly at the snuff brown wool jacket and vest. He ran a slim, pale hand over his bare scalp. Resigned, he headed downstairs.

“There you are, Alexander, let me look at you!” Lillian demanded. Her face glowed with pride as he stood on the bottom step, hesitating. His mother reached for him, automatically smoothing the collar of his lawn shirt.

“It itches, Mother,” he complained, but he blossomed beneath his mother’s fond regard as she brushed the jacket with her palms for stray lint.

“Stop fussing and fawning over him, Lillian,” Lionel snorted. “Fix your jacket, son. Carry yourself like a man.” It was a tall order for a boy of ten.

“Father, I can’t fasten it,” he replied sheepishly.

Lionel was silent for a moment before he shook his head, chuckling under his breath.

“Alex, Alex,” he began, “what are we going to do with you?”

WHAP!

Alex spun from his father with the impact of the slap and clutched his throbbing cheek. He stared at him wide-eyed and covered the stark red spot with his palm. Lillian shook with shock.

“LIONEL!”

“Never say ‘can’t’ to me, son. Ever. I won’t have disappointing children in my house.” Lionel’s eyes were stony chips, even though his face was tranquil. He stepped back and jerked the lapels of his jacket straight with emphasis.

Slowly Alex stood and imitated the gesture without a further word. Yet he continued to try to fasten the stubborn button.

“Here,” Lillian urged, “let me look at it, darling.” She studied it carefully. “Oh, I can fix it. Let me get my sewing scissors. The hole’s too tight. That’s why it won’t go through, Alexander.”

“Don’t coddle him, Lillian.” She peered over her shoulder at him as she turned away and went to fetch her sewing basket.

She’d pay for her impudence, turning her back to him.

Alex didn’t sit until his father did. Once the meal was finished, Alex rose to help his mother clear the dishes until his father tutted at him to stop.

“Your place isn’t in the kitchen, son. Leave your mother to her chores.”

“Yessir,” he mumbled.

“I didn’t hear you, son.”

“Yes, Father,” he amended, raising his voice half a notch and adding what conviction he could muster.

“Get ready. Lillian, give him his lunch and his other things and have him meet me outside in five minutes. We’re taking the coach.” Lex groaned inwardly and curled his toes inside the expensive leather boots on his feet. He knew the other students would arrive via their fathers’ wagons or on foot. Now he wouldn’t just be a spectacle; he’d be a target.

His mother’s hands smoothed over him again, adjusting his collar, his cuffs, flattening a pucker in his vest. Soothingly she cradled his cheek in her palm. Her brown eyes were deep and soft.

“You’re father…he’s a demanding man, Alexander. We must work hard to please him, I know, but he gives us the best life he can. He has certain expectations.”

“Of you, too, Mother?” She nodded and smiled.

“Of me, too, certainly, son,” she sighed. They shared the quiet, secret smile that they’d perfected since he’d been old enough to grow teeth. She’d finished her meticulous work with her scissors and a needle and thread. His button was snugly fastened, and he looked fastidious and neat.

And thoroughly out of place.

Lillian kissed the top of his head and embraced him.

“Make me proud, Alexander,” she whispered. His slender arms wrapped themselves tightly around her waist, something he seldom dared for fear of his father’s reprisal. Lionel was a hard man and possessive of his wife’s affections, jealous even of his own son.

Alex was shooed out the door with his lunch pail and a brand new slate. He joined his father in the back of the coach, sitting up straight and craning his neck to watch the scenery go by.

Smallville was small, dusty and flat, with the exception of a small cluster of hills and caves on the outskirts of town. Local rumor had it that they were populated by Indians, but the claim was never substantiated. The children enjoyed making up tales and legends, challenging each other to explore the caves, but no one had taken the bait before.

Up until today.

A small group of boys were lounging outside the schoolhouse when they arrived, fiddling with a pile of marbles. They gave his father’s stagecoach long, curious looks as it pulled up, distracting them from their game.

Alex scrutinized them from the safety of the interior, hunching down within his coat and felt hat.

“A few of them look like they’re your age, Alex,” his father remarked. “I know you’ll set them a fine example of how a young man behaves and excels in his studies.”

“What if they don’t like me?”

“That’s up to you. But it’s not important what they think of you, Alex, just that they respect you and know they’re place.” Lionel settled his weighty stare on him and beckoned to his coachman to open the door. He clapped his son’s shoulder briefly, as close to an affectionate gesture as he ever made. “I’ll see you at dinner, son. I expect a full account of your day.” Alex nodded and accepted the coachman’s help from the vehicle. He moved away from the coach, just far enough for Nate to whistle for the horses to take them away. He avoided the dust that they kicked up, careful not to scuff his new footwear.

The boys were already sniggering amongst themselves. Most of the boys were slightly shorter than he was but sturdy. Their skin was tanned from time spent in the sun. Alex, by contrast, was reed thin and fair, with the beginnings of a spray of freckles over his nose.

Alex squirmed in his hot suit; the sun was already high in the sky, and it was only nine o’clock.

“Hey!” one of the boys shouted, elbowing his neighbor. “What’s your name, queer boy?”

“I’m not queer,” he shot back. Alex felt his face reddening, both due to the heat and his frustration.

“Bet your mother doesn’t want you to get your fancy clothes dirty, queer boy! Mama’s boy! Go run home to Mama!” he jeered. The boy was smug, dark brown eyes glittering. His smile was gap-toothed and broad. Alex had the benefit of his big front teeth already being grown in, but he still felt self-conscious.

“Don’t say that about my mother!” he warned them. They continued to jeer and stick out their tongues.

“Aw, what’re you gonna do, queer boy, blubber like a baby? Baby, baby,” he chanted, spurring a chorus of it from his peers. They resembled a flock of magpies.

“Hey, take off that sissy hat, Queer Boy!” It was officially his name, now. His first day of school, and he’d already been branded.

“I don’t have to, you cretin,” Alex sniffed, using one of his father’s favorite words.

“Then I’ll take it off for ya!” the boy crowed, picking up a huge rock from the ground and hooking it back, letting it fly free. It whizzed through the air. Alex was so intent on watching it fly that he forgot to duck.

Thwock!! “OW!”

Pain exploded and throbbed over his eyebrow. His hat landed in the dust, dismaying him.

His mother would be very disappointed that he’d soiled his new hat…

He heard a sharp intake of breath and muted gasps.

“Jesus,” one of the older boys hissed, not caring about the profanity. “He’s bald!”

“Like an egg,” another one marveled. “He’s queer, and he has no hair!”

“Egghead!”

Blood oozed from the cut, and he watched them through a haze of pain. His fingers curled around the fallen rock, its cold, smooth surface tempting him…

“What are you boys doing over there?” shouted a deep, rough voice over the clatter of hoofbeats and creaky wagon wheels. He heard a matched pair of Morgans nicker and whinny as he halted them. Boots thumped to the ground, heading for him as he recovered his wits. He held his temple and stared up into the face of a man with kind blue eyes.

“Pa! Pa! What happened?” called a young voice behind them. Alex stared at a boy of about six hopping down from the wagon without permission, darting over to where he sat and uncaring of the dust that he kicked up in the meantime. “You’re bleeding!” he exclaimed. His green eyes were wide with interest and surprise. He turned and stared at the boys, who turned away and tried to act innocent in the face of adult wrath.

“Hey!” The man was clearly a farmer, if his long gait and brawny build were any indication. He had the broad shoulders of someone who slung hay bales and handled a yoke of oxen as easily as breathing. “Are you boys making trouble? Why’s this young man bleeding on the ground?” They searched for a reply and backed up toward the schoolhouse stairs.

“I expect an answer, and quickly, or I’ll have to speak to your teacher. And she’ll contact your parents,” he promised grimly. The set of his mouth was mulish and hard as he stood with his hands on his hips. He wore rough garb; his shirt was made of some homespun looking material in medium beige, and he wore dark brown trousers with black suspenders. His hair was sunstreaked and blond beneath his brown, wide-brimmed hat.

“We were doin’ nothin’,” piped up a boy with a strawberry birthmark on his cheek, giving him an emphatic shrug.

“You weren’t doing anything,” he corrected him.

“We weren’t, see?” he grinned, hoping the turn of phrase worked in his favor.

“Does it hurt?” a small voice over Alex’s shoulder whispered. It was the boy again.

“Why?”

“Because it looks like it hurt,” he replied. His face was wreathed in sympathy.

Despite himself, Alex smiled up into the small face.

The child had an odd, piquant beauty. His green eyes almost swallowed up his face, bottle green with amber bursts around the pupils. His skin was tanned, but not as darkly as the other children or his father’s. He was strapping and tall for his age, and he had rosy lips and cheeks. His hair was wavy and a glossy black, a sharp contrast to his complexion.

The boy grinned suddenly, revealing pearly white teeth; he was only missing his top two.

“I’m Clark!” he announced.

“Alex,” he grunted before he could stop himself. Why was he talking to this little snot?

And why was he letting some simple farmer fight his battles for him?

Alex rose and dusted himself off, straightening his jacket. The little boy jumped into action, acting as his “valet” as he retrieved his lunch pail, which thankfully hadn’t spilled, as well as the new slate.

“You look different,” he mused, eyeing Alex’s fine clothes.

“Different from you, maybe,” he shot back, and his voice held a hard edge. He sighed and took his belongings from the lad. “I’m starting school here today.”

“My daddy’s big and strong. We live on a farm,” little Clark boasted.

“Oh, yeah? Well, my father owns stagecoaches and the store on Main Street!” Alex bragged, and for once he was thankful for his father’s position in Smallville.

They were interrupted by the sound of Clark’s father’s booming baritone and Midwestern accent, giving the predatory schoolboys what-for.

“Real men don’t gang up against one person like that,” he scolded sternly. “I know your parents,” he informed them, pointing to the one who threw the rock,” and yours, Whitley Fordman, and yours, Jason Teague.”

“Oooooo,” hooted a low voice from behind the crowd. His neighbor elbowed him sharply in the ribs to silence him.

“I’d take a strap to my own son’s backside if he treated someone like that,” he went on. “I’m not above planting that suggestion with your own parents if I notice something like that happening again. Or with Mrs. Sullivan,” he offered.

That made them pale. The schoolteacher was a legend in town, still teaching despite the fact that she was married. Her young daughter, Chloe, was smart, impish, and far too involved in people’s business. Word of the conflict would spread far and wide…

“Please,” Alex whispered. “Please, don’t say anything else.”

“Why not?” Clark whispered back, tugging on Alex’s jacket sleeve. “My pa will make it all right. He doesn’t like it when people are mean.”

“I don’t want him to say anything,” Alex hissed back. “It’ll make everything worse!” He hurried forward and planted himself between Clark’s father and the boys.

“Sir,” Alex began, “I’m fine. See? It was an accident. I just fell. No one ganged up on me.” Alex’s face was serene, yet pleading.

Jonathan Kent stared at the unusual boy for several long seconds. He took in the expensive-looking clothes, granted, but what floored him were his eyes. Slate blue with a distinct gleam of intelligence. But that wasn’t all. They were ancient. Old man’s eyes in such a young, pure face. His face was lean, already devoid of the baby fat other boys his age still had.

His scalp was completely bald; even the follicles appeared to have closed up, leaving the skin there poreless and smooth. Jonathan wondered if he’d had a bout with scarlet fever. He couldn’t fathom why else his parents would keep his head shaved, if that were the case, with such extremes of weather that were well known in Smallville.

Meanwhile, his lips were running on autopilot. “There’s no reason to tell Mrs. Sullivan anything, sir. I mean, she doesn’t have to know anything about my accident!” Jonathan inclined his head toward him and reached out. Alex flinched. That gave Jonathan pause.

Someone had mistreated the boy…

“Hold still, son,” he murmured, and he reached out to brush some of the dirt from Alex’s jacket. Clark watched with interest as he led his new friend toward the water pump on the other side of the schoolhouse. Behind them, Clark heard the boys talking and chortling.

They had no idea how much he could hear.

“Look at that mama’s boy. Needs Kent’s pa to protect him.”

“Maybe he should go back home in that fancy coach he came in,” snorted Jack, the oldest of the boys. “Whadda you think, Pete?” Pete Ross was thoughtful and quiet, reaching up beneath his short-brimmed cap to scratch his head. The gesture revealed his brassy auburn hair.

“I dunno,” he shrugged. “So he rides in a fancy coach. So what?” He sat down and counted his marbles. “Must be nice.” A few of the boys looked thoughtful.

“What’s your name, son?”

It unnerved him, hearing another man call him “son,” yet who looked at him with such kind regard.

“Alex. Excuse me…Alexander Luthor, sir.”

“He likes Alex,” Clark chimed in, looking proud that he remembered. Jonathan was pumping water and splashing a lawn handkerchief he had in his pocket. He wrung it out and used it to daub the cut over Alex’s brow. The scarlet gash was stark against the paleness of his skin. Jonathan tsked under his breath; it would leave a scar on that pristine face. Thankfully the blood hadn’t stained his jacket.

“I’m okay now,” Alex huffed, backing away and gently removing himself from Jonathan’s grip. The man grunted and nodded.

“All right, then.” He turned to Clark briefly. “Son, I’m heading to the blacksmith’s. I’ll be in town a while. Your mother will bring you home today. Mind her, mind your teacher and behave yourself.”

“Yes, Pa,” he replied obediently. To Alex’s surprise, Clark launched himself at Jonathan and hugged him firmly around the waist. Jonathan looked upon him fondly, and a smile crinkled at the corners of his eyes. He ruffled his son’s dark curls and gave him one last pat. Jonathan took his leave, whistling jauntily. Alex didn’t recognize the tune.

He steered his wagon back onto the gravel road.

The rest of his day wasn’t much better.

Slowly, more students swarmed the schoolyard. The girls began congregating and chattering near the steps, resembling a field of wildflowers in their dresses of calico trimmed in ruffles and pleats. Two in particular caught his attention and made him suppress a smile.

They were a study in opposites. They were about Clark’s age, from what he could tell. One had glossy sable hair and an olive complexion. Her eyes were an unusual, mottled shade of hazel; one moment, they appeared brown. When the sun hit them, they were a mossy green. She had delicate features and wore an apple green dress sprigged with white flowers and high-buttoned boots. Her hair was braided in thick, snug cables that hung down her chest.

She had her arm around her companion’s waist and giggled at something she whispered into her ear. And she appeared to be giggling at Clark.

A crush. How…cute. Alex smirked as he doodled on his slate, not caring that it was for school.

The second girl was blonde and fair. Her eyes were robin’s egg blue and wide, and her smile was also wide and slightly dimpled. Her looks were more open and approachable. Her hair appeared to have been rag-rolled into neat curls and were tied back from her face with a light blue ribbon that matched her dress. Her bonnet hung tied by its strings around her neck. For some reason, she was the one who looked like trouble.

A woman with caramel brown hair pulled back in a snug chignon and wearing reading glasses came out of the school and stood at the top of the steps. She surveyed the children on the grounds and sighed before she rang the bell. It chimed as the students lined themselves up in a neat row, preparing to fine inside.

Clark attached himself to Alex’s side like a little burr. “We have to be quiet. Mrs. Sullivan says so,” he whispered loudly. Alex grinned.

“All right, Clark,” he whispered back. Clark’s eyes widened.

“SHHHH!” he shushed him, holding his little index finger up to his lips. He smiled as though they were privy to some great secret.

Despite himself, Alex liked Clark Kent.